The Long Winter
by WickedTheRedHorse
Summary: A second Stark sister, cold and sharp, betrothed to Roose Bolton but a hostage of Aerys' in the rebellion. A second Lannister sister, her father's favourite but sweet and naive, as different from her family as can be. Both are disgraced by birthing a bastard before marriage, one with a lion's green eyes, the other with jet black hair. The effects of these new players on Westeros.
1. A Crown Of Bloody Roses

Harrenhal was a dark, ugly, twisted shadow with a stinking aura of death about it.

The great hulking castle had been on the horizon for days, without it seeming like they were getting any closer, though they had passed countless people flocking there for the tourney. Any locals they came across gave their party of mostly northerners either wary looks, or watched with wide-eyed fascination. It was rather satisfying, in a way, but disconcerting in others.

Rosennis Stark was unused to so many people. The North was vast, its population largely spread out, with huge swathes of untouched, empty wilderness. That suited her fine. The busier it got, the closer they grew to Harrenhal, the more on edge she became. Ross couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding that hung over her, though perhaps that was just dislike for this place.

She had ridden with Brandon and Lya down from Winterfell, to join up with the party from the Eyrie, including Ned and Robert Baratheon. The young lord was certainly a... charismatic presence, she thought as the man made some bawdy jest, which made Brandon howl with laughter and Ned snort. Benjen was sniggering, unsure as to whether he should be laughing or not, and Lyanna was grinning, clearly amused, but there was a wariness in her eyes that had been there since they met the man she was to marry.

Lyanna did not quite know what to make of her betrothed; Ross did, but didn't want to voice her thoughts and put her off any more than she already was. Her sister seemed to like the man well enough when they were laughing with her brothers, telling funny stories, drinking or racing horses, however whenever Robert tried to do anything that dared venture even slightly into courtship - pay her a compliment or try to help her dismount her horse - she became rather clammed up, short and defensive.

The logical conclusion to be drawn from that, Ross thought, was not that Lyanna did not want to marry Robert, more that she did not want to marry anyone. She knew that already, of course. Ross was as different to her younger sister as ice was to fire, but though they often had their fights and rivalries, they had always been close. However much Lya was against this match, she would do her duty to the family, Ross knew her that much. Her sister might be wild, but she was not stupid, nor selfish, and most of all she was loyal.

Lyanna slowed her snow-white mare to ride beside Ross. People had asked why it was the younger Stark daughter betrothed to the powerful southron lord rather than the elder. They stopped asking when they saw the two side by side.

Though Lyanna was not typically pretty, she had a wild sort of beauty and was very bold, her fiery nature alluring to many. Ross had none of that. At newly five-and-ten, little less than a year older than her sister, she wasn't ugly but was no great beauty either, tall but thin as a beanpole, with a long face, sharp nose and little to no womanly curves. To describe her as charming would have been laughable. Prickly would have been a better suited word. Icy cold, another, all sharp edges and blunt cynicism, which was often a well-needed foil to her sister's follies.

However, just as Ross could temper some of Lyanna's wolfblooded notions, Lyanna always did bring out the reckless side of her. The two sisters exchanged a look.

"Race you to the edge of the trees," Lya nodded to some way ahead of them with a challenging grin.

Her sister's white mare, and Ross' own steel grey, had been a gift from the Ryswell's (looking to marry their daughter Barbrey to Brandon). Both horses were very well-bred, strong and hardy as befit a creature of the North, but also agile enough to pick up speed in the dense forests around Winterfell. These Riverlands woods would be child's play.

Ross smiled, nodding once before digging her heels sharply into her mare's sides. The powerful animal leapt forward as though stung, and she gently but firmly took it in hand to gain control, dodging between the other horses in their group, between Robert Baratheon's great chestnut courser and Ned's dark bay, to cries of surprise from the others. She heard Lyanna laugh loudly from behind her, but Ross' eyes were ahead, keen and sharp. The road narrowed and then they were in the trees.

She didn't know these woods. Any misstep - a trip on a log, misjudging a gap, not seeing a burrow - would bring them both down, break the horse's legs, break her own neck. For Lyanna, that was the thrill of it. For Ross, on the other hand, it wasn't even a concern. She knew the horse wouldn't fall for her, she had been an expert horsewoman at ten. Where other, better ladies were skilled at embroidery, stunningly beautiful or talented singers, riding was the one thing Ross could truly claim to be a master in.

But Lyanna was very nearly as good, and ten times as daring. Ross could hear her sister's catcalls and whoops behind her, could hear her horse's hooves pounding on the ground as they cleared a ditch, then a fallen tree, not bothering to find a way around, just leaping straight over. This was nothing compared to their rides in the Wolfswood, but it gave a similar rush, even without the smell of sentinel pine and the chill northern wind in her hair.

Up ahead was a stream, cutting out a gully about four feet across right in their path. They could have found somewhere to ford it, but... no. Ross fixed her eyes straight ahead, spurring the horse on when she felt it hesitate slightly, counting the strides underneath her, feeling a rush of anticipation that the mare picked up on, firing it up even more, one, two, three-hands-forward-lean-forward and _up_!

One split-second of weightlessness as her mare cleared the stream easily, then hooves crashed down on the opposite bank. She felt the horse stumble so kept its head up with the reins, digging her heels into its sides again and it surged forward to the finish, Lyanna right at her side.

Ross won, but by a hair's breadth, so of course her sister disputed the fact. They were still arguing when the others caught up, Brandon and Robert roaring with laughter. Ned grinned between them, whilst Benjen looked on in admiration but also slight jealousy; he never couldn't keep up with his sisters. Not that anyone could on horseback.

"I say Lady Lyanna won," Robert said, still chuckling, with a charming smile that was seemed to be all it took to have an otherwise chaste innkeep's daughter lifting her skirts. Lyanna just wrinkled her nose.

"Now I think of it, Ross _did_ win," She turned away and rode off, and Ross couldn't help snorting at Robert's bemused expression, falling in beside Ned. She wasn't expecting Robert to turn to her.

"Lady Rosennis, I hope you can be of more use than your brothers in this matter," He started with a sigh. "What could I do that would charm your lovely sister?"

"Without her galloping away from you on horseback as fast as possible, you mean?" She couldn't help but ask, seeing her brother's eyes glinting amusement. Even Robert laughed good-naturedly. "Don't try and charm her at all. Talk with her, laugh with her, but don't try and court her... Act like she's Ned,"

_"Ned?"_ The young lord started to laugh. "Forgive the coarse words, my lady, but your sister is far easier on the eyes than Ned's frozen face,"

"That's my point," Was all Ross said. Let him work that one out on his own.

* * *

Jaime Lannister had never been anywhere more... vibrant. Nor chaotic. The tourney grounds at Harrenal were like something out of the tales of his childhood. Bright pavilions in all colours for what seemed like miles around. Banners bearing every sigil imaginable. Lords, ladies, knights, merchants freeriders, sellswords, tradesmen, farmers and whores, all mingled amongst each other. He didn't even remember seeing this many people in one place in King's Landing.

Despite the hordes of people, his sister was easy to pick out of the crowd. There she sat, golden and radiant on her blood-bay mare, dressed in Lannister colours, surrounded by an escort of two dozen scarlet-cloaked guardsmen. Her whole face lit up when she saw him, red lips parting in a beaming grin that lit up the field that little bit more.

Giana had always been like that, a true ray of sunshine, sweet, kind, unambitious and cheery, the most genuinely warm person Jaime had ever met. She acted rather young for her age, but laughed easily and often, somehow talking to most everyone like they were her equals, even though few could ever equal Giana Lannister in much. Not looks, not kindness, not charm, but quite possibly in brains. As lovely as she was, his little sister was rather naive. Uncle Gerion had once asked their father if she truly was a Lannister at all. Lord Tywin did not appreciate his wit.

"Jaime!" Giana made to dismount, but he was already there, sweeping her off her horse and spinning her around in a tight hug as she laughed, neither of them caring what anyone thought. They hadn't seen each other for nearly a year, not since before Jaime left with Lord Crakehall to fight the Kingswood Brotherhood; he had been back to the Rock since, of course, for a whole month after being knighted by Ser Arthur, however Giana had been away for that time, visiting a Westerlands bannerman prior to a possible betrothal.

Jaime had ached for Cersei in the months since he had left King's Landing, but he hadn't quite realised exactly how much he had missed his younger sister too until she stood before him. He set her down on the ground, keeping an arm around her waist.

"You've grown," She looked up at him, eyes wide. He had grown, but so had she. Giana was not as womanly as Cersei - she was a year younger, shorter than Cersei had been even then, and her features were softer than his twin's dazzling beauty ever was - but was a world away from the little girl of thirteen he had left behind.

"Didn't you hear?" He teased, taking the reins of her horse with his free hand and leading them through the crowd, their guards following behind. "It's Ser Jaime now. Show some manners, Gin," That nickname came from a time he was too young to say her true name properly.

"I _do_ apologise, dear brother," Amusement glittered in her apple-green eyes. "But it seems to me your head is already inflated enough as it is," Jaime laughed. He really had missed her, though would reluctantly admit to himself he would rather it was Cersei here today. The thought of having the same relationship with Giana as he did with his twin made him feel slightly sick.

"You're probably right," He shrugged. "I still can't believe Father let you come," Jaime was far from surprised by his father's fury at his upcoming appointment to the Kingsguard. He had known when Cersei first came to him about it that it was not a good idea. It had taken even _her_ a whole night to persuade him to take the position, even though becoming a member of the Kingsguard had been a boyhood dream of his. But it had come down to whether or not he wanted Cersei by his side, and he had chosen his sister in a heartbeat, as he always would, for what was Casterly Rock compared to her?

They had expected Lord Tywin to be angry. They had not foreseen him resigning his post as Hand of the King and returning with his household and daughter back to the Rock. Jaime was honoured to be accepted into the Kingsguard, but it was soured now that Cersei would not be there to share it all with him. When he was in the Westerlands, she had been in court. Now he was to be a Kingsguard, she had been dragged back home. The irony did not fail to be anything less than a slap in the face.

"He still believes there is a chance you'll get out of this, somehow, or he'll find a loophole so you can still inherit," Giana said with a carefree shrug. Bad events never seemed to upset her like they did most people, but Jaime suspected that was because she didn't quite understand things like consequences. Despite this, no matter what Cersei claimed, Giana was undoubtedly their father's favourite (not that that counted for much) and understood the man remarkably well for someone so utterly different. "He would never disown you. That would leave Tyrion as his only son," She pulled a face, showing her distaste at how their father treated their younger brother.

"Small chance of that," Jaime said, with a humourless smile. She hummed in agreement, and he didn't push the matter. They walked in a comfortable silence for a few moments.

"Is it true you fought the Smiling Knight?" She turned to him with glittering eyes, previous discussion forgotten, and he grinned. Giana was refreshing in a way few people were.

* * *

Being presented to King Aerys Targaryen was one of the most uncomfortable experiences of Giana's life. Countless people had warned her of the king's affections towards her lady mother Joanna, but she hadn't appreciated exactly how far that had gone. Though Giana wasn't as beautiful as Cersei, she was well used to the gazes of men, but this was different. She looked more like their mother than her sister did, and even their names were somewhat similar. Something that the king had certainly noticed.

Shivering, she remembered the way the old man's stare had roamed up and down her body, like he was undressing her with his eyes, and the salacious comments he had made that had made her skin crawl. Giana had seen Jaime's jaw clench as he stood beside her, but of course he could do nothing. Soon he would be sworn to protect that man with his life.

She wasn't sure if she liked that thought. She had always thought her brother would make a good white knight, but now she wasn't sure. He was reckless, she knew, and he way he looked at the king when he made those comments towards her... something in that look made her pause.

The day only seemed to get worse after that, even though she tried to put Aerys out of her mind. During the opening ceremony of the tourney that evening, she watched as Jaime knelt before Gerold Hightower to be inducted into the Kingsguard, a pure white cloak fastened around his shoulders. To the crowd, excited for the festivities, her brother looked the perfect knight, young, talented, golden and handsome; they cheered him with enough noise to wake the dead.

Jaime stood, the newest member of the Kingsguard at only fifteen years old, and the king soaked up the praise, believing it to be for him, though surely no one in their right mind would cheer for such a horror. Giana furrowed her brow as she saw Aerys say something to Jaime that made his face fall for a fraction of a second, before his expression became carefully blank and he nodded, once. After she rejoined him, he wouldn't tell her what had been said.

The feast that night was wonderful, though. So many people, all dressed exquisitely; she herself wore a gown of pale orange and gold. Her whole life she had mostly been confined to the Rock, yet here it was like a whole new world. There were so many people, packed into the Hall of a Hundred Hearths (though Jaime assured her there were only thirty-three). The Tyrell ladies with roses woven in their hair. Lithe spearmen in flowing silks from Dorne. The beautiful Tully sisters, with gorgeous copper hair. The wild-looking Northmen in dark leathers and furs down from Winterfell. And the powerful young storm lord, Robert Baratheon, arms like tree trunks, who grinned roguishly when he saw her looking. She smiled and waved merrily back, which seemed to please him more.

Jaime didn't notice Giana slip away; he was with several others around his age, mostly the sons of Westerlands lords, and a few squires, though others were eager to congratulate the newest member of the Kingsguard. More than a few serving girls were hovering around him, giggling amongst themselves, though Jaime paid them little mind.

"My lady," Baratheon bowed when Giana approached, a gleam in his eye that even she knew was far from innocent. _Was that even a bad thing_? A thrill went through her at the scandalous thought and she giggled, curtsying sweetly. "I don't believe we've met. Surely I'd remember such a fair face," The compliment was transparent, but appreciated nonetheless.

"I don't believe we have, my lord," She felt daring and looked him in the eye. Giana wasn't going to mention her name; any mention of her father was enough to scare anyone away. And it was only a bit of fun, Lord Baratheon was just being friendly, surely, she looked too young for him to be truly interested.

"What's a beauty like you doing all alone?" Another man - handsome in a wild sort of way, rangy and strong - joined them unabashedly, with a wolfish grin. "Brandon Stark. A pleasure, my lady," He bowed, taking her hand and kissing it, cutting across Robert to do so. Though delivered smoothly, the pretty words were clearly uncharacteristic from this one, judging from the way the man's younger brother, a slight boy of one-and-ten, was gawping. Giana did not miss the warning glance Brandon Stark gave Baratheon, and suddenly remembered that the man was betrothed to Stark's sister.

"I am charmed, my lords," She smiled sweetly, not wanting to upset the Stark girl by flirting with her betrothed. "But I'd best be going. My brother will be looking for me," She curtseyed once more and turned to leave, feeling Robert's stare on her back as she returned to Jaime.

"Where have you been?" He asked, eyes narrow.

"Making friends," She said, catching his arm as he turned away. "Jaime, what's wrong?" She had noticed the pained look he was doing his best to hide all evening. Her brother didn't speak for a moment.

"You'll have to spend the rest of the tourney on your own," He said eventually. "I'm to return to King's Landing in the morning," Her mouth fell open.

"What?" She exclaimed indignantly. "_Why_?"

"The king commands it," He said bitterly. "Even though the queen and Prince Viserys already have two Kingsguard with them. But it's my duty now, to obey the king. I have to go,"

"But you'll miss the joust," Giana said in dismay, knowing he had wanted to compete; he could win, if he wanted to, there was no doubt about it.

Jaime only nodded.

"So be it,"

* * *

All the women here were beautiful. The dazzling Giana Lannister, whose dress shimmered like spun gold. Violet eyed, alluring Ashara Dayne in black and purple. Lyanna, all bared teeth and Northern wildness but no less beautiful for it. And then there was Ross herself, tall, skinny and sharp, with dull brown hair and grey eyes, dressed in a modest dark green dress.

She had hoped to remain mostly unnoticed. Unfortunately her family name made that impossible, no matter how plain she appeared, as well as her family themselves.

"Come on, Ross, just one dance," Her eldest brother grinned at her. "I've danced with near ever lady in this room, but not my own sister, how can that be?"

"You've seen me dance," She replied flatly. "I'm hardly the picture of grace,"

"But you don't tread on my toes like Lya does when she's drunk," He pointed out, and she had to smile slightly.

"Perhaps not, but that doesn't - Brandon!" Ross glared at her eldest brother, resisting half-heartedly as he pulled her to her feet by both wrists. But her brother was strong, and easily dragged her onto the dance floor.

She glanced to Lyanna for help, but her sister was indeed drunk, and dancing herself, hanging off of Robert Baratheon and laughing loudly. The man had clearly taken Ross' advice. Even though her sister wasn't the best dancer after several cups of wine, Baratheon looked delighted.

Ross looked to Ned instead, only to see him talking to the beautiful Ashara Dayne. She blinked in surprise - _how did that happen?_ \- but by that point Brandon had put one hand on her waist, the other holding hers, and led them into the dance.

"See," He said. "This isn't so bad, is it?"

"Only because I'm with you," She admitted grudgingly. Her brother was actually a rather good dancer, and big enough to make her tall, thin frame not look so gawky. "Some lordling from the Stormlands asked me to dance earlier - his forehead barely came up to my nose. It would have looked ridiculous," Brandon snorted.

"You might look like a spider now, Ross, but you'll grow into those coltish arms and legs. Maybe," She trod on his foot for that, with the sharp heel of her boot. In response, Brandon gave her hair a painful tug. She glared at him, but he only laughed.

"I think I prefer dancing with Ned," She muttered, glancing over to where her second brother was now dancing with Lady Ashara. "Speaking of. How did _that_ happen?" She turned back to Brandon.

"Our dear brother couldn't take his eyes off her, but of course was too shy to ask for a dance," He grinned wolfishly. "So I asked her for him," Ross chuckled at that.

"She seems to like him," She said. "Perhaps because he knows when to shut his mouth. You have no idea how many cocky young knights and lordlings have approached me tonight, only to talk of their own tourney victories. Fascinating though they may be," She grimaced, tone thick with sarcasm. "The other subject of conversation seems to be my _beautiful_ eyes," She had seen many of them struggling to find a believable compliment, settling on what was generally a safe bet unless the lady in question had one missing.

"I do believe you're immune to charm, little sister," Her brother said, clearly amused, then glanced over to Lyanna and Robert with narrow eyes. "Not that that's a bad thing. Baratheon was all over some little chit of a girl earlier, she's got no idea,"

"Lya's not charmed," Ross smirked. "She's drunk, and Robert's good company in that. Believe me, she knows more than enough about her soon-to-be husband's reputation,"

"He doesn't know her, though," Brandon said rather darkly. "Doesn't know that when he gets bored with her and Lya finds him fucking some serving wench in their bed, she won't just sit back and let it happen like a good little wife,"

"In which case," Ross smiled tightly. "Let him find out the hard way," Her brother smiled sharply. Knowing him, he would most likely come raging down to Storm's End himself if there was any indication Lyanna was not happy.

"Aye," That wolffish glint was in his eye again. "Gods, who would choose to be betrothed? Ned's the lucky one. I'll have my sensible, dutiful, deathly dull Tully bride," Ross knew Brandon had wanted to wed Barbrey Ryswell, but equally he hadn't been too upset when their father said no. "Lya will have her whore of a husband," She snorted at that. "And we'll probably be sent your flayed skin made into a cloak within a year of giving you away to the Leech Lord," Her brother's dislike of her betrothal was well known.

"Please, brother, give me more words of encouragement like that on my wedding day," Ross said dryly. "When I find the secret chamber in the Dreadfort where they keep the two-legged wolf pelts, I'll send you one," He laughed, then looked somewhere over her shoulder.

"That's her,"

"Who?" She manoeuvred them around so she could look without staring behind her.

"The girl Baratheon was flirting with," Ross rolled her eyes.

"Let it go, Brandon," She said. "The man's likely flirted with half the women in this room,"

"Half the women in the room aren't as beautiful as that one," He said darkly, and she finally realised who he was staring at. Golden hair, warm smile, beautiful face.

"That't the Lannister girl," She started to laugh.

"Gods, is it?" Her brother gave a bark of laughter.

"Even Robert isn't stupid enough to go anywhere near her,"

"Perhaps you're right. Lord Tywin would certainly see that debt paid,"

* * *

She was a pretty little thing. Very pretty, in fact. Robert had been watching her for much of the evening and would guess she was aged six-and-ten, perhaps a year younger. Her hair was a cascade of gold curls, her big laughing eyes were a bright apple-green, and she had a smile that lit up any room she entered. She seemed the perfect woman; for tonight, at least. Robert didn't need Lyanna Stark and her funny moods he couldn't keep up with.

He and his betrothed had seemed to be getting along, then his hand had slipped a little too low, not even on purpose, and she had closed off immediately, going to dance with her bloody sister. But he didn't need her.

Some rational part of his mind - a rather small part, which sounded like Ned - warned him that she was most likely a noble, that she would have a father who would be out for blood for despoiling his daughter, that it was more trouble than it was worth. It made him hesitate, but only briefly. He saw the girl leave the hall alone, casting a laden look his way as she disappeared around the corner, and that was enough. The drink, and his cock, won that argument. Robert lurched to his feet, following. _What's the worse that could happen? _Who could she be to get _him, _Lord Baratheon, into trouble?

She laughed merrily when she saw him - he suspected she was rather tipsy too, though not completely drunk like he was - dancing and swirling between the tents. He chased after her with a grin, and she danced nimbly out the way, but he caught her eventually, grabbing her around the waist and swinging her around easily - she weighed next to nothing to him - as she squealed delightfully, before he pulled her back tight against his chest. She fell silent, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and she craned her neck around to face him, eyes wide and innocent. She was tiny in his arms, a little doll with a vivacious smile.

"Come, my lady," He found himself saying, unable to resist such a delicious little thing any longer. "My tent's this way," She smiled.

* * *

Giana woke before dawn with an ache between her legs, in an unfamiliar tent, next to a huge man, whose arms held her tight against his chest. The events of the previous night flooded back to her, and she was torn between a girlish giddiness at the rebellious thrill of losing her virtue, and a sense of pure terror at what her father would do when he found out.

_No, not when_, she tried telling herself. _If_ he found out. _He doesn't have to know_. All her guards had spent that night deep in their cups, and would hardly face Lord Tywin's wrath by telling him they'd let his daughter out of their sights for a whole night. And no one but Robert knew exactly where she'd spent the night, and he didn't even know her name.

She couldn't get with child from this encounter, you couldn't on your first time. She'd heard that from a couple of gossiping maids. And it wasn't like Cersei was still a maid; Giana still remembered seeing those love marks on her sister's body, and that man's sock in her rooms last year that she claimed was Jaime's. Whoever she had been with then, it certainly wasn't their brother, no, she was seeing someone in secret. If Cersei could do it, then why couldn't she?

None of that reasoning helped much. Giana was still terrified. But first she had to get out of this tent.

She slid out from under the furs, taking care to not wake Robert, but he barely stirred. Hopefully he'd been so drunk that he'd forget this happened. Giana didn't regret it exactly, but it wasn't something she would've done sober. And the thought of her father finding out was truly horrendous.

Gods, she'd made a mistake. A huge mistake.

She quickly dressed herself, struggling slightly to lace herself back into her gown from the previous night. It was rather gaudy for early in the morning, so she took one of Robert's plainer travelling cloaks, large enough for her to use as a tent, and pulled the hood up to hide her face and golden hair.

The guards at the entrance to the tent chuckled and made lewd remarks as she passed, most likely believing her to be some common serving girl. Giana ignored them, slightly perturbed, and snuck across the quiet campsite just as it was beginning to stir.

In the guise of a commoner, no one spared her a second glance, except for a dark-haired girl with a long, sharp face grooming a horse, who eyed her for an uncomfortably long time. Giana cursed in her head, recognising her as Brandon Stark's sister, the taller one.

The girl didn't approach her, nor did she call out, but she knew she'd been recognised so was forced to stop beside her. The girl looked like she'd rather be left alone, but Giana couldn't take the risk.

"Lady Rose, was it?" She asked, having to fake her usual cheery smile as her heart pounded in her chest. The girl's lips twitched slightly; she didn't seem very friendly.

"Rosennis," She said rather shortly. "My brothers call me Ross. That'll be what you heard," That was a rather pointed reminder that they didn't know each other.

"Of course," Giana fought to keep the smile on her face. The girl didn't seem to be trying to be rude. She was just... prickly, hard to talk to. "Well, I'm glad we could be properly introduced now. I'm Giana,"

"Lannister," Rosennis stated, with a raised eyebrow. There was a pause as Giana floundered. "I'm not going to tell anyone, you know,"

"Tell them what?" Her tone became slightly strained in her concern.

"You know what I mean," The dark eyebrow raised further, unimpressed by her weak attempt at lying.

"You saw me, then," Her heart was pounding.

"Coming out of Baratheon's tent? Yes," Rosennis shook her head, resuming grooming the horse. "Like I said. I'm not going to tell anyone,"

"But he's your sister's betrothed," Giana blurted out incredulously, surprised by the girl's unexpected kindness. _Was it kindness?_ "Why wouldn't you? I'd be furious if I were you," _Even for Cersei_. "Anyone would," Rosennis was silent for a moment.

"You're not me," The Northern girl looked at her with sharp grey eyes, her tone blunt. Apparently that was all the answer she was going to get.

"Well, thank you," She was still puzzled. "If there's anything I can do..?" Rosennis shrugged, but Giana suspected all she really wanted was to be left alone. "I'll see you at the tilts today, I suppose," The girl gave a curt nod, turning back to her horse. Giana hesitated for a moment, before turning on her heel and hurrying away, wanting to scream.

* * *

Ross frowned as Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, jousting champion, trotted down the stands on his silver destrier, the crown of love and beauty on the end of his lance. _Now there's a tourney knight if ever I saw one_.

There was something wrong, though. The prince was slowing his horse, and Princess Elia got to her feet in anticipation of being handed the crown. But Rhaegar wasn't looking at his wife, Ross realised a second before a collective gasp ran through the crowd. The crown prince had ridden past the princess, who stood there with a hurt expression she quickly tried to conceal.

It was like something out of a nightmare as Rhaegar reigned in his horse before the Starks, extending his lance to Lyanna.

Elia Martell sat back down with quiet dignity and painful finality. Brandon, contrasting, was on his feet in an instant, opening his mouth in outrage, but Ned and Ross both yanked him down.

"Not here, Brandon, sit down. Not here, not now, we'll fix it later, just _wait_, not now," Ned was murmuring under his breath, calming their brother in a way only he could, though the look in his own eyes was mutinous.

The blue crown still remained on the end of the lance, hanging like a noose. The crowd was shouting, many of the nobles too, and Ross saw the Mad King rise from his throne several seats away, turning his vile purple eyes their way.

"My lady," Rhaegar said, speaking directly to Lyanna, who sat there looking as surprised as Ross had ever seen her. But as she watched, she saw her sister's face turn to ice in an instant as she swallowed. Lya was angry, embarrassed and afraid. But the crown wasn't going away, and she couldn't refuse a prince of the blood, not like this. No matter what she did here, she couldn't win.

Lyanna took the crown of winter roses with steady hands, laying it on her lap with uncharacteristic care, like it was doused in wildfire. It might as well have been.

The commons was still in uproar, the lords and ladies all muttering intently, all eyes were on them. As Rhaegar turned his mount around, having stared at Lyanna for several long seconds, Ross reached out and grasped her sister's cold hand with her own. Lyanna was motionless otherwise, but squeezed back.

"We're leaving," Brandon growled, getting to his feet now the prince had gone, ignoring the stares all around them. "Now. Up," He yanked Benjen roughly to his feet, Ned swiftly rising himself with a warning hand on their brother's arm.

Brandon made to grab for Lyanna, but Ross quickly linked arms with her sister as they stood, glaring warningly at him. Robert Baratheon rose to leave with them, but a few quiet words from Ned and he sat back down; he didn't look as angry as Ross would've expected, or perhaps he didn't particularly care after his tryst with the silly little Lannister girl the previous night.

The five Starks left the stands, ignoring the mutterings and catcalls all around them. Brandon walked in front, Benjen hurrying beside him to keep up with his long strides. Ross and Ned had Lyanna between them, who for once was keeping her eyes on the ground. It was unpleasant, seeing her wild sister so cowed, and looking back at the prince - dismounting casually, as though he was above the madness he had just started - Ross would happily have run him through. Had he any idea what he had done, or was he as big a fool as Giana Lannister?

She felt Mad Aerys' eyes following them the whole way, and fought the urge to shudder.

* * *

"He can't do that," It was her own voice that spoke, but she barely heard it over the ringing in her ears.

"He can," Ned ground out, eyes dark. "He's the king,"

It had been dire news when Ned and Brandon had been called before Aerys after the jousts that day. The king was seeing traitors everywhere, particularly after the mystery knight, and his son singling out Lyanna over his own wife had moved suspicion onto them. He wanted assurance that the North wasn't a threat. He wanted a hostage, a Stark hostage, and not the girl his son had shamed in front of all the Seven Kingdoms, so as not to set tongues wagging.

"Fuck the king," Brandon spat, pacing up and down the tent. "He - "

"Stop it," Ross stopped him with a glare, beginning to understand exactly what the king wanted. "Don't be stupid, I have to go,"

"We can't just send you off there alone, Ross," Her brother exploded. "Aerys is mad! You've heard the stories from King's Landing, he burns people alive on a whim,"

"I'm a Stark," She replied, calmer outwardly than the growing rage and panic she felt inside. "He can't lay a finger on me, or he _will_ have a rebellion on his hands, and not just from the North. There's countless Tyrells at court, his son's married to a Martell, he's got a new Lannister Kingsguard, and now me. If he harms me, all those houses will feel their own kin threatened, they won't stand for it,"

That might be true, but didn't make any of them any happier. There was a heavy silence.

"You can't go, Ross," Benjen's expression was pleading. He was only eleven. "You just... can't,"

"She has to," Lyanna's eyes flashed in anger, but her tone lacked it's usual bite after the raging argument between Brandon and Lyanna after they returned from the tilts. Brandon had asked if she'd slept with Rhaegar, to which she had been understandably furious, given that all the prince had done was help her hide the fact she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree (though no one knew of that but Ross and Benjen).

Her sister was sat on the camp bed now, having been glaring at the crown of now-limp winter roses that still lay on the table. "It can't be Brandon, he's the heir. It can't be Ned without provoking the Arryns too. It can't be Benjen because he's only a third son. It can't be me because of that _fool_ Rhaegar Targaryen who started all this in the first place," She spat the name sourly. "And if none of us go, then we might as well fall on our swords now, because there's no chance of Aerys letting us leave otherwise," No one could argue with that.

That night Ross dreamed of her sister, her brothers, her father. At first they were all at Winterfell, home and safe. Father was sat in the Lord's chair. Brandon was sparring in the yard. Ned was by the pool under the heart tree. Lyanna was galloping over the moorland. Her mother was there too, reading a book beneath the huge arched window of the library as if she hadn't died birthing Benjen. Even Grandmother Arya, who had been gone seven years now, was there, waist-length grey hair as Ross remembered. But then it all changed. Blood started to trickle from the eyes of each member of her family, then the nose, the ears, the mouth, they were all drowning in blood amidst smoke, screams and dying men. All her loved ones, dead, gone, the sounds of war echoing throughout the land.

She awoke with a small gasp, heart pounding, nightdress drenched in sweat. The first thing that caught her eye in the dim gloom of the tent was the crown of winter roses that still rested beside Lyanna's bed. The darkness played tricks with her eyes, so it almost looked as though the crown was covered in the same blood as her dream, lying in a pool of it, dripping down the table and onto the floor.

Ross got to her feet and without hesitation threw the cursed thing into the embers of the dying fire. Watching the roses blacken and shrivel didn't bring her much satisfaction. Only a nasty feeling in the pit of her stomach that much worse was coming.

* * *

She rode out of Harrenhal the wrong way. South east, instead of north, accompanied by a dozen Targaryen guards, with only two Northmen there in the grey cloaks of House Stark. It was all wrong. Ross wanted nothing more than to turn her horse around and gallop back up the Kingsroad.

She could do it, her horse was fast enough, she could easily find her way home. The grim grey walls of Winterfell loomed in her mind, the dark sentinels and ancient oaks of the Wolfswood, the bleak and wild moors, the cold wind on her face, the solemn face of the heart tree, red leaves reflecting in the hot springs. Her father's stern expression, Brandon flirting with serving maids, Ned's kind eyes, Benjen's young exuberance, Lyanna's laughter as they raced on horseback. _Home_. She didn't know when she'd see Winterfell or her family again.

She was meant to be married after her sixteenth nameday, in ten moons time, become Lady Bolton of the Dreadfort. Ross supposed that either way, she wasn't to be in Winterfell much longer. But at least she'd still be in the North, only a weeks ride from home. At least she'd be a lady in her own right, not a hostage in a mad king's game.

Their party moved fast, and they soon caught up with another rider heading to the capital, the newest Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister. He was younger than he'd seemed now she saw him up close; though he was over six feet tall and looked older, his clear green eyes, so much like his sister's, showed he was most likely her own age.

Though Lannister laughed and joked with the guards, with an easy charm and sharp wit he seemed to have been born with, Ross noticed that, when no one was looking, that dazzling smile of his dropped altogether, replaced by a rather different expression altogether, Anger, primarily, but sadness too, and a hint of apprehension that she wouldn't have expected from the cocky young knight.

Because Jaime Lannister was arrogant, there was no doubt about that. He had plenty of reason to be, which made him all the more irritating; the eldest son of the richest family in Westeros, blessed with good looks, skill at arms, the youngest Kingsguard in history.

Gods knew why, but he seemed to find Ross particularly amusing. She suspected that was out of boredom more than anything else. There was only so much joy in the conversation the guards offered, and after the first few days, once he'd heard all their battle stories (which, admittedly, he had listened to attentively) and talk of women (he offered little himself with regard to that subject, leading many of the men to tease him for having a sweetheart somewhere instead of the seemingly expected crowd of whores) he slowed his horse to ride at the back of the column with her and her guards, all three of them eyeing him coldly.

"You're awfully quiet," He remarked, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. Ross knew when she was being mocked, and glowered ahead of her.

"I haven't got anything to say," She replied. _Nothing you'd like to hear, anyway_. Lannister pulled a face.

"Gods, you Starks are a dour lot," He said.

"And you Lannisters are rather full of yourselves," Ross said bluntly, earning chuckles from her guards. He gave a surprised laugh, not seeming to care that he was being made fun of.

"So you do have a bite to you, after all," He said. "I was starting to think you were ever so dull," _Some would call his constant pestering dull_. "How many Lannisters have you met, anyway?"

"You," She said. _You're enough to prove my point_. "And your sister, Giana," He smiled then.

"I'll give you that, then," He said. "We deserve to be a little arrogant, though, don't you think?" He smiled that charming smile, and Ross looked on unimpressed, not letting on that that was exactly what she'd been thinking. _Shame you're all annoying cunts_. "I must say, though, not all the Starks are so grim and solemn as you. Your brother Brandon made a fine drinking partner that first night, and your sister's practically a wolf in ladies clothing,"

"She wasn't when I last saw her," She found herself saying. Lannister's smile became rather fixed.

"No, I bet she wasn't," He looked thoughtful. "What did she do with her lovely crown?"

"Nothing," Ross said. "I threw it in the fire," He snorted at that.

"I don't blame you,"

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Since first posting this, I have edited and reposted this chapter on 21/06/20; there are no major plot changes from the original, I just made several small improvements. _

_Anyway, thanks for reading. I appreciate any comments left, and find constructive criticism very helpful, so please feel free to tell me what you think. _


	2. A Living Statue

Rosennis Stark was a strange girl, Jaime often thought. It had been over a month since they rode into King's Landing side by side, two people of the same age in a similar situation, and yet he barely knew her at all.

He'd tried to brush her off as dull when they met on the road from Harrenal. Her long, sharp face, stiffness and reserved manner did little to disprove that, and she seemed entirely unimpressed by anything and everything she came across, especially him. That in itself was rather entertaining, however; he had amused himself on the journey to King's Landing by finding the best ways to get under her skin. Jaime had been in a foul mood since leaving Harrenhal, understanding the moment Aerys spoke that he was as big a fool as his father claimed, having not realised until that point that the king hadn't made him a Kingsguard for anything he'd done, merely to spite his Tywin Lannister. The Stark girl's blunt replies and sharp tongue, to him and others she took a dislike to, at least managed to make him laugh. Strange, considering the girl herself was dour and lifeless.

She was a good rider, though, he'd give her that. Her horse appeared little more than a sturdy northern beast at a first glance, however when Jaime had taken the chance to look it over properly he'd seen plenty of evidence of fine breeding. It was evident in the way the animal moved that it was powerful, more so than any ladies horse had the need to be; more spirited too, proved when one of the more foolish squires had tried to mount it when they made camp for the night, thinking its mistress to be asleep. The horse had taken off with the boy with a steely stubbornness that matched its owner, refusing to slow down despite the fact the boy was a decent rider. It had taken a furious Rosennis Stark - commandeering Jaime's own horse for herself - galloping up beside the idiot squire and grabbing the reins of her mare for the horse to finally come to a halt. That was the most life Jaime had seen in the girl then, as she was merciless in tearing the boy apart, without even raising her voice. He was only a year or so younger than her, yet she near reduced him to tears with her barbed tongue, to the hilarity of the other squires. Even the men had taken to mocking him, one old soldier chuckling darkly and saying Lady Stark had given him the tongue-lashing his mother should have years ago.

Despite amusing moments like that, however, Jaime had remained angry and miserable at the fact he had thrown his life away joining the Kingsguard. He wasn't too bothered about losing Casterly Rock, Tyrion would make a better lord than he ever would. But he had lost his sister, and Cersei was irreplaceable. Judging from her usual bitter expression, he suspected Rosennis felt much like he did.

When they made it to King's Landing, things weren't much better. He didn't see as much of the Stark girl. He spent his days guarding the queen and young Prince Viserys - a rather dull task no matter how pleasant Rhaella was to him - and she spent her days doing... whatever girls did. He occasionally saw her with the queen, practicing embroidery and the like, though it was clear that she held Rhaella partly to blame for the whole mess with her sister and the queen's son, judging from her rather cold manner towards the older woman. But then Aerys returned, and Jaime's boredom turned into something else entirely.

The first burning - a thief and serial rapist sentenced to beheading - had been bad enough. Bile had risen in Jaime's throat at the smell, and he had struggled not to flinch at the inhuman screams of the burning man on the pyre. Even if he knew the man deserved to die, seeing his blackening body twisting and writhing as the flames consumed him was far worse than the quick, clean fall of a headsman's axe.

The second burning was nothing short of horrific. The only thing keeping his eyes forward had been the harsh stare of Ser Gerold opposite him, daring him to look away. Jaime didn't like to think of what he'd seen that day. _They had said the King was mad, but gods, it was only a little boy who stole a cake. He was the same age as Tyrion, and everyone had just stood at watched, all those people, all those knights. _He still hadn't had a good night's sleep since. The boy had pleaded with anyone he could as he was dragged towards the pyre, imploring the brave knights of the Kingsguard to come and save him. No one did a fucking thing, himself included.

Burned sharply into his memories of that day, along with the dancing glow of the flames and the high pitched screams and pitiful sobs, was the image of two glazed grey eyes from across the hall. For some reason, Rosennis Stark had been there, the only one present who wasn't a guard or gaoler, certainly the only woman there. The King seemed to delight in trying to make the girl uncomfortable, hence why she too had to witness such horrific acts as his guardsmen. But Stark hadn't taken her eyes off the flames, off the dying child. Her face was grim, her mouth set in a line, and her expression didn't change at all. Jaime resented this at first; was she so cold that she didn't care? Then he realised that of course that wasn't true, but was still resentful as he doubted he was doing nearly as thorough a job at keeping his face straight. Upon peering at her closer, he saw that she didn't look... all there.

Afterwards, as the dozen or so other witnesses left in a cowed silence, ashamed at themselves, buried in duty or scared for their own lives, he felt a bony hand grab his elbow from behind as he reached the end of the corridor. He hadn't heard anyone behind him, but looked to see the Stark girl there, long thin fingers curled tightly around his arm. She had looked straight at him with that sharp face of hers, not bothering with introductions at all, and spoke with her usual bluntness.

"I go away inside," She'd said. "You should too," He saw his own haunted eyes reflected in hers. Without a word, she'd turned on her heel and left in the other direction in a swirl of dark skirts and clicking boots on stone.

That had been a week ago, and she hadn't spoken to him since. But there had been another burning that morning. Jaime had been on duty, and it had been awful. An old man, who'd begged for his life and insisted he was nothing but a loyal citizen, innocent of whatever crime they'd pinned on him. He most likely was - innocent, that is. Not that that meant a fucking thing here. Rosennis had been there too, but had vanished as everyone left. Jaime had had to stand two more hours afterwards guarding Princess Elia and her daughter. It was surreal, going from that awful scene to watching little Princess Rhaenys giggling as she played with dolls in silk dresses and painted toy dragons. If anyone had indeed tried to attack the royals under his watch, he wouldn't have been much use, being in too much of a shocked daze to react quickly to anything. Elia had eyed him with concern, but had seemed to understand after asking where he had come from, giving him a regretful smile and kindly pat on the arm that made him feel rather pathetic.

Now he was off duty, he still couldn't unsee the way that man's skin melted perversely, the way he screamed that he had a young granddaughter to look after, that he was all she had, that she'd die on her own. Feeling like he'd go mad just sat in his room in the White Sword Tower - and Ser Gerold had forbidden him from training even more excessively than he currently was, lest he overtire or injure himself - Jaime found himself wandering aimlessly around the castle. _All these lords and ladies, so beautifully mannered, so beautifully dressed, the picture of civilisation. All these knights, shining examples of chivalry and honour..._ It was ironic, really, the real world.

He was just passing the stables when he heard a commotion, the unmistakable sounds of a horse out of control. Crashing, cursing, shod hooves clacking on cobbles, squealing whinnies. Jaime jogged the rest of the distance there, wondering if he could help in any way. He'd spent plenty of time in the stables of Casterly Rock as a boy, despite his father saying it was beneath him, and a reminder of home (or anywhere that wasn't here) would be a small comfort. However, when he rounded the corner he was met with a rather surprising sight.

The stable hands were all standing in the yard, surrounding a huge black destrier. The animal was wild, snorting and dancing around. A snapped rope hung uselessly from its halter from where it had broken free as it spun and reared defensively, threatening to kick anyone who went near it. The grooms had all backed off, giving it space, yet a thin figure was approaching it, Rosennis Stark. What was she doing here? Not seeming at all scared by the huge animal, though clearly wary, she grabbed its halter on both sides, forcing its head in front of her own and holding on, planting her feet into the ground even as it tried to rear again, her bony wrists looking ready to snap. She wasn't gentle, but wasn't rough either, and her lips muttered fast words too quiet for Jaime to hear, breathing into the horse's large, flaring nostrils. And after a tense few moments, the animal began to calm.

She carefully lead it over to the wall, walking at its shoulder so as to give it it's head, and tied it up very loosely with a fresh rope before wordlessly taking the bridle off a nearby boy and, after loosening every strap as far as it would go, eased the bit into its mouth. The horse snorted and stamped a little, but the girl remained calm, hand holding its face steady even as she had to stand on tiptoes to pull the headband over its ears, murmuring to it all the while, and the big horse submitted. This surprised Jaime, not only because she'd managed to tame an animal that weighed over half a ton, but also the fact that most highborn girls couldn't tell one end of a horse's tack from the other. Yet here she was, fastening the noseband with deft fingers, carefully adjusting the cheekstraps, double checking the tightness with a brisk efficiency. Perhaps it was different in the North, he thought, as she turned, catching sight of him. He saw the look in her eyes for a split second - she was considering if she could get away with pretending not to have seen him - but his raised eyebrow of acknowledgment ruined any chances of that.

"Ser," She nodded a greeting, offering no more words, and every eye in the yard suddenly looked at him, startled at his appearance. He ignored them, stepping closer to the stallion and noticing the girl wore a riding habit; did she mean to _ride_ that monster? Not that Jaime wouldn't - he'd get on anything - he'd just never met a woman who rode a destrier, let alone a wild, half-broken one like that.

"Lady Rosennis," He said, following her example of not bothering with niceties. There was a pause. "You're good with horses. Less so with conversation," His tone was slightly mocking, as usual. People either appreciated it, or were irritated by it. Usually he could tell which way it would go; with the Stark girl, he could not, not even after he spoke.

"I know," She said. Her expression barely changed. She seemed slightly annoyed, slightly amused. "My sister is better," With horses or people? The latter, he supposed.

"Beg pardons, milady, but you're more than good," One of the more senior grooms stepped forward, grinning. "That one arrived three days ago, Ser," He addressed Jaime, pointing at the horse. "A gift for the King, but he ain't even seen it, doubt he'll ever ride it. Named Black Dread. A fine beast, strong as an ox and fast as anything, but surely a nastier temper than the dragon it's named for. None of us boys could get near it with a saddle. Was all we could do to get it in the stable. Came down morning after, though, to see Lady Ross had the brute bridled and was all ready to go off bareback because she couldn't lift the big old saddle that high!" The man laughed and Jaime grinned, but was also quite impressed. The way the man addressed her, using a nickname, spoke of familiarity. She must spend a lot of time here.

"What happened just now?" He asked. "When it tried to trample half of you?"

"Tried to tack it up without her, Ser," The groom smiled ruefully.

"I told you," Rosennis said, not unkindly, taking the heavy saddle in her skinny arms. "Half of you are too rough with him, whilst the other half jump out of their skins the moment he turns his head. It's easy if you stay calm," Jaime smirked as the groom chuckled.

"All due respects, Milady, but none of us can talk magic to it like you can,"

"I don't talk to horses," Her lips twitched in amusement. "It's not magic, just words in the Old Tongue. They don't understand it, it just calms them a little because of the way I say it,"

"They did say you northerners were all half-Wildling," Jaime said. "Didn't know you were a woodswitch as well," The girl rolled her eyes. "Are you going to ride today?"

"Yes," She said. "Here," It was only then that Jaime realised she still held the heavy saddle, as she thrust it in his direction. He blinked at it. "Do you know what to do?" He was about to deliver a biting retort to that, but then realised that a faint smile played at her thin lips.

"Of course," He shot her a dazzling smile, which made most girls (excluding his sisters) swoon, taking the saddle and swinging it onto the stallion's back, though set it down carefully, not willing to be the one to set the beast off again. "I'd be more than happy to instruct you, my lady," Rosennis had ducked around the other side to do up the girth, and he saw her arch an imperious eyebrow, making him laugh again at her completely unimpressed expression, as the groom watched, shaking his head.

"There's a sight I never thought I'd see, Lady Stark and Lord Lannister tacking up one of my horses for me," He said with a grin. Rosennis actually laughed at that, the first proper one Jaime had ever heard from her; it was short and rough, no charming giggle. Despite being unable to lift the saddle that high, she put her foot in the stirrup and pulled herself up easily from the ground to sit astride the horse's back, taking the reins as Black Dread wheeled around and tossed his head, giving a few rears before she collected the horse with a clearly well practised hand. She wasn't a short woman by any means, but looked like a child sat on that giant beast.

"Where do you ride today?" Jaime asked her. He didn't know why. She wasn't exactly exciting conversation.

"Around the keep," She said, frowning slightly. She probably wasn't allowed out, Jaime realised. "The horse needs exercising," He caught the ghost of that smile on her face. "No one else will do it," He was beginning to understand her now. A sister who was more beautiful, more confident, with a stronger personality. But Rosennis had her horses, and she was happy with that. She looked away as he grinned, nodding in farewell to the people in the yard as she prepared to leave, but Jaime spoke again.

"It worked," He said, and she reined the horse in, looking down at him and ignoring the stallion's impatience. He beckoned her to lean down, and she obliged after a moment's consideration, letting him talk quietly to her alone. "What you said last week. That one today. It didn't help much, but it was... better," Her face grew grimmer.

"Ser Jaime," She nodded in farewell, something more in her stare, before releasing her hold on the reins - all it took to spur the horse into leaping into canter - and leaving through the gate in a clatter of hooves the size of dinner plates.

* * *

They walked together in the cold winter morning, the air misty and frost on the ground, the golden young Kingsguard in his white cloak and the tall, thin lady in a grey gown so dark it looked black. An odd pair, he'd admit it himself. Since the morning in the yard, Jaime had been seeing more and more of the Stark girl. He still didn't know why he was bothering with her, but he supposed there wasn't any better company in this wretched place.

She suited this weather, and looked more at home out here in the frozen Godswood than she ever had anywhere in the Red Keep. He thought she'd like it out here today; they both needed it after her audience with the king earlier. She'd been dragged out of bed early to witness yet another burning - for Jaime, it had just been a shit end to a shit night standing outside the queen's chambers whilst the king brutally raped her - then insulted and belittled in front of half the court. Her mask had remained the whole time, stony cold. A living statue. He'd seen the dread in her eyes as he escorted her from her room, though, and as he led her out again afterwards he had felt her shaking under his arm ever so slightly. She was only fifteen, after all. It was easy to forget. He himself was only a year her senior. He felt decades older than sixteen.

"No," She said flatly to his question. "Not a chance,"

"I saw you dance with your brother and sister at Harrenhal," Jaime said with a grin, catching her eye.

"They dragged me up there," She said, a note of wariness in her voice, and her eyes as she looked at him. She looked calmer already, he saw; she was a hard one to read, but he was learning. The bitingly cold air felt fresh and cleansing after the stifling heat, choking smoke and putrid stench of burning flesh, which still lingered in the throne room even when there wasn't a pyre burning. Jaime himself was suddenly in a much lighter mood.

"Oh, is that all it takes?" He made a lunge for her, laughing as she dodged out the way.

"I'm not dancing for you," She insisted, though had to smile grudgingly as he prowled towards her, despite backing away.

"_With_ me, Ross, with me," He continued to advance, and she backed away. "Many a beautiful maiden in the Seven Kingdoms would kill for me to ask them to dance," He didn't think she was used to men like him asking her to dance. Or anyone, really; she wasn't exactly the type to inspire any admirers, with her stiff manner and sharp tongue. At her now-familiar unimpressed stare, he had to laugh. "Come on. I'm sure you're not awful. And even if you are, I'm good enough for both of us,"

"Arrogant southron flower," She muttered. He bared his teeth in a sharper smile at that, lunging at her mockingly, laughing as she leapt back. "No, don't you dare," She tried to escape again, but this time he grabbed her easily by both forearms, as she half-heartedly struggled. "Jaime!" His name sounded strangely endearing in her northern accent.

"Let yourself go for once," He said, spinning her round in a circle several times, made clumsy by her unwillingness to move. "Gods, you're stubborn," He got a wicked glint in his eye, and suddenly grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her in the air and spinning her round. He got the pleasure of hearing her give a highly uncharacteristic surprised shriek as her feet left the ground, and after three full turns set her down, grinning as she stumbled against him from dizziness. "Steady there, Lady Stark,"

"Don't _do_ that," He wasn't expecting her to turn right around and shove him so hard he staggered, catching him off guard before another shove pushed him clean over. Before he fell, he instinctively grabbed at her again and pulled her down with him into an ungainly heap. They both lay there for a moment in a stunned silence, before Jaime started laughing. "Do you laugh at everything?" She sounded very disgruntled, sitting up and rubbing her sharp elbow, which had dug into his side. Jaime made no move to get up.

"I used to_," Now I only laugh with you_. He stopped laughing abruptly. _Where had that thought come from?_ Jaime had never particularly enjoyed the company of women who weren't his relatives - all others tended to pale in comparison to the forces of nature that were Aunt Genna, Giana and especially Cersei - and had only ever found himself attracted to his twin sister. He had laughed less and less the longer he spent in the Red Keep, the more time he spent around Mad Aerys; now he was finding that his most common expression was a cynical sort of smirk, enough to keep some bravado up, and his smile now cut like a knife. But around Ross he felt more like his old self. Both of them knew the horror that lived in this castle, and called himself King. Somehow it made it better, having someone who knew that like he did. Still, though... _It's only because I've been away from Cersei so long,_ he thought. _The_ _Stark girl amuses me, that's all_. "Your elbows are like spears," He lifted his tunic to peer at the fast-forming bruise on his ribs. "And where did you learn to push so hard? I'm surprised those skinny arms of yours didn't snap,"

"I've got three brothers," Was her explanation as she got to her feet and brushed the snow off her dress with the dignity she had left.

* * *

The letter reached him unopened; all Lannister letters were, Grand Maester Pycelle was loyal to Tywin to a fault. Jaime instantly recognised his sister's writing; not Cersei's elegant, flowing hand, but Giana's loopy letters. He opened it, always glad to hear news of home, however was in for a nasty shock.

_Dear Jaime, _It read.

_Brother, I have done a stupid, stupid thing. I have no one to turn to but you. I am with child. _

He reread that part several times, thinking he'd mistaken the letters. No, he had read it correctly. It didn't get better with each read; worse, if anything. Gods Giana... His sweet, innocent little sister, pregnant. Heart sinking, furiously imagining killing the man who did it, he read on.

_Please don't be angry. I am begging you, before you do anything rash or reckless, just hear me out. I don't want anyone else to find out. _

She knew him too well. Right now he wanted the head of whoever dared to lay a hand on her. But he forced himself to read on.

_Father would force tansy tea down my throat no matter how far along I was and would watch to make sure every bit of my child bled out onto the floor. Please, Jaime, for my sake and my baby's, your niece or nephew, __**don't**__ say a word. I know when it happened and who the father is. I'm not a whore, there's only been one man, once, ever. I'm five months pregnant - I waited to tell you, to be completely sure. At the Harrenhal tourney I spent the night with Robert Baratheon._

Fuck. Oh Giana you stupid, foolish... Of all people, _all people _it could've been, it was Robert Baratheon. Notorious womaniser, betrothed to Lyanna Stark, the list went on.

_Yes, I know what you're thinking. Save me your criticisms brother, I hear them in my head every waking moment. I was stupid. Father will be absolutely furious, his blasted Lannister legacy ruined for his whore of a daughter. Baratheon doesn't care for any girl he fucks. I didn't care that he didn't care at first, but now, for obvious reasons, I'm starting to reconsider._  
_Jaime, I'm scared. _

He gritted his teeth at that. His sister never admitted weakness. She was much like Cersei in that regard. A Lannister, no matter how different he was to the rest of them. For her to admit that, she must truly be terrified.

_I'm so scared I can't keep my hand from shaking as I write this. I'm four and ten. That's too young to birth a healthy child and live, everyone agrees. What if the birth goes wrong? I can't tell anyone, the Maester would go straight to father, and anyone in Lannisport would recognise me. Mother died birthing Tyrion, and she was a woman grown, with the finest Maesters and midwives in the land to attend her. I'm all on my own. And Tyrion was a dwarf - I don't know if you've noticed but the Baratheons are _huge_. I'm sorry, I know this is doing nothing but worry you, but I've got to tell someone even if it won't do any use. _

_Father's going to notice at some point. I'm showing, but it's not obvious yet unless you look closely. I've been pretending to be getting fat, using more padding everywhere else. Cersei will love that. If I can keep it hidden until the babe is actually born then it won't matter. Father can't kill a newborn. Even if he sends it away somewhere, at least it'll live. Maybe it can be a servant here, or go to the Citadel to be a maester. Then I'll deal with whatever consequences, or I'll be dead, and it won't matter._

If his sister died from this, gods help Robert Baratheon. Nothing on this earth would stop Jaime from hunting the man down and putting a sword through his heart.

_Your loving sister,_  
_Giana_

The letter looked unfinished. It wasn't like her to end one so bluntly. Jaime sank down onto his bed with his head in his hands. _Giana, what have you done?_ This was bad, very bad, and he couldn't tell a soul.

Moon tea? Why didn't she find some moon tea straight after? Cersei had been using it since they were twelve. But Giana wouldn't have thought of that, she was like him, too caught up in the moment to worry. Or perhaps she did remember, but was too kind. Was the thought of killing even the trace of a child something she was unwilling to face doing? He wouldn't put it past her, no matter what she said. Sometimes he himself wondered how many of his and Cersei's children had been killed over the last few years, but shook the thought off. The idea of a child that was half him and half his sister wasn't something he wanted to think about.

* * *

Jaime wasn't there the first time it happened. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

It was the day after Brandon Stark had arrived at the Red Keep, yelling up at the castle for Rhaegar to come out and die. Stark had been imprisoned almost immediately, along with his friends he'd brought along to suffer with him, but Ross had come running out just in time to see her brother being dragged to the cells. She had been furious ever since hearing the prince had kidnapped her sister. But in that moment, the look in the two siblings' eyes had been identical, bloodthirsty, vicious and wild. Ross could say she and her second brother were alike all she liked, but Jaime saw more of Brandon in her than Eddard, despite all her quietness.

Jaime was still loathed - an understatement, really - standing outside the queen's door, guarding her husband as he raped and brutalised her, but he did it nonetheless, for all the months he'd been here, no matter how much he wanted to burst through those doors and tear that vile old man off his mother's former friend._ We protect the king_, Jonothor Darry had told him sternly, looking down with those disapproving eyes even though Jaime was an inch taller. _We do not judge him_. And that was said by a man who was meant to be one of the truest knights in the realm.

He had been leaving the White Sword Tower when he had seen Barristan Selmy trudge into the tower, face twisted in a rare moment of what looked like self-loathing. Jaime had raised an eyebrow, and though the moment Selmy saw him he schooled his face back to its normal dutiful expression, both of them knew he had noticed. Neither said a word, continuing on their ways, but it raised Jaime's suspicions. He became even more convinced something was wrong when he noticed Darry and Lord Commander Hightower muttering to each other in a hallway, stopping abruptly as he approached. It was only when he came across Oswell Whent and Lewyn Martell talking on the staircase that he discovered the truth.

"... have you seen the look in the boy's eyes when the king visits the queen?" Whent was saying darkly. Neither man had noticed him there. "There's something unsettling there. He's young, reckless and one straw away from snapping, no matter what grins and smirks he plasters on his face, and we trust him with keeping it together through _this_?"

"You shouldn't call him boy," Martell said absently, sounding as mild-mannered as ever. "Not after what he's seen, or what he's stood through,"

"Hm. Perhaps," Whent gave a grunt of grim amusement. "Hardly the point though, Lew. The girl's his friend, and you know what boys - alright, _men_ his age are like when it comes to women, even ones like the Stark girl," Jaime froze. "Do you really think he'll stand outside that door and say 'yes, Your Grace, a pleasure to serve' if it happens again?" A nasty, cold feeling was growing in the pit Jaime's stomach, though his head was roaring.

"I think you underestimate Jaime Lannister," Martell said thoughtfully. "He's done better than any other his age would, no matter what look you think you see in his eye," He paused. "Although I think we should be sure to put him on duty with you, Ser Arthur or myself if this happens again. For all I'm sure he respects our fellow sworn brothers, he isn't a man who responds well to simple blank-faced duty and expectations without reason,"

"Well that evident from the fact that he's here, and not Casterly Rock," Whent snorted, then held up his hands. "Fine, fine. I trust your judgement, I'll not say anything to our dear Lord Commander," There was a moment's silence. "Though maybe it would be worth it just so the boy doesn't have to hear - "

"He's not a boy," Martell said again, voice equal parts hard and sad. "He will do his duty. He'll have to, at some point, regardless of what we do now. And besides," He sighed. "It's not like Rhaella. The poor girl barely made a sound," Jaime, in an uncharacteristic display of clumsiness, dropped the plate he was carrying. The pewter clashed and clattered down the staircase, ending up at Whent's feet, who had a hand on his sword hilt at the sudden noise. Both knights looked up, as Jaime walked down to join them, expression oddly calm.

"Did I hear that correctly?" His voice seemed rather far-off, distant, as did the smirk he felt his lips twist into. "Aerys has got bored with his queen?" It was a credit to all of them that no one mentioned his clear show of eavesdropping.

"_His Grace_," Martell said, as a warning not a reproach. "I am... sorry, Ser Jaime, I really am - "

"But you stood outside the door regardless?" There was a slight mocking note to his tone now, and he knew he should shut his mouth before he said something stupid. He didn't, of course.

"It's our duty," Whent said, rather harshly, but Jaime knew it was meant, like Martell's, as a warning not to let any of the other Kingsguard hear him talking like that. Perhaps it was a hint defensive, too, he noted. Interesting, but ultimately useless.

"Of all the ladies in court, he chose the one with a tongue like acid and a face like vinegar," It started out as a jape, to serve what purpose he didn't know, but embarrassingly his voice caught on the last few words, and its true intention - _why her?_ \- came through loud and clear. There was a short silence. _Fuck it. Fuck it all_. "Did she look - Was she - were there any injuries?" He sounded like a fool, and almost winced at his words, but Martell just eyed him rather sadly. Even Whent was devoid of his usual dark humour.

"You've seen the queen," Was all the knight said, blunt as ever, but at least he was honest. Jaime stared at him for a moment, then at Martell. He couldn't think of anything to say.

"Excuse me," He said finally, shouldering through them both, astonished that he hadn't lost his temper yet. _Why, I'm practically dead inside_.

* * *

She was in the godswood, as he had suspected, on her knees before the heart tree. As was her usual custom, she wore a dark coloured gown, but this one was higher-cut than normal, up to her neck. That didn't conceal the set of fingernail scrapes down the side of her face, and her swollen lips. Her hair was loose, however, dark and glossy. She'd cleaned up, he realised. There were no traces of dried blood anywhere, her hair was brushed, and when she got to her feet he saw her nails were - though cracked and torn - tidied up as well as they could be.

"Do you think it would be treason to let your wolfblooded brother out and give him free run of the keep?" Jaime said. "Perhaps not. It's a big place, he'd get himself lost," She shrugged, bleakly.

"I'd give him directions to the king's rooms," There was a silence. "Promise me," He looked at her, and she was staring right at him, eyes grey and intense. Icy and burning at the same time. _Steel_. He nodded slowly. "Promise me that when it's your turn to stand outside that door, you'll just stand there. That you'll just bite your tongue, keep your sword where it should be and do your _duty_," She spat the word out, but her resolve didn't waver.

"I - " He broke off. "Ross, surely - "

"No," The steel gaze was still there. "I want a promise, now," She glanced away for the briefest of seconds. "If he burns you too, who else have I got?" That was a good point he hadn't considered.

"Well if my very presence keeps you from throwing yourself off Maegor's," He started, and she rolled her eyes, the faint hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Fine. I promise," She nodded, once. They both stood there, unsure of what to do. If she'd been Cersei or Giana or even Tyrion, he would've embraced her then, but surely that was the last thing she wanted after... He stopped that train of thought before it started.

"Are you alright?" He nearly winced at how pathetic that sounded. Of course she wasn't - if he was a woman, he'd rather die that go through what she had - and he sounded like a fool for asking.

"I will be," She said, not quite smiling, but the look in her eyes and the set of her mouth told him that she would be alright the day Aerys died a long and painful death. One day that wish - Aerys dying, at least - would surely become a reality. It was whether either of them would be around to see it that was in question.


	3. Storm

Giana Lannister stood before her father in his solar. Everyone in the castle was under the impression she was getting fat; she ordered enough food so that they'd think so, and gave what she didn't eat to her grateful maidservant, who had two hungry young sons. That had the added benefit of ensuring the woman kept silent about her growing belly when dressing her, even if Giana had had to assure her doubts several times. Cersei was constantly crowing over the fact she was gaining weight, even though her sister had always been the more beautiful one anyway, and everyone knew it. Cersei just seemed to appreciate that any possible doubt had been taken out of the equation. However, her father felt differently. Lord Tywin could not have a fat daughter, and, having eyed her disapprovingly for months now, had finally called her to his solar to put an end to it.

"Gluttony is not befitting to a daughter of House Lannister," His green-gold eyes were harsh and judgemental, intimidating as they always were; she might be his favourite, but that didn't make him any more lenient on her. Giana suddenly felt a sharp pain to her stomach, and couldn't help but give a small gasp, hand twitching to her belly before she gritted her teeth and bore it. She'd been getting these pains since she woke up early in the morning, and had hoped they'd wear off soon, but if anything they seemed to be getting worse, and more frequent. A feeling of dread had gripped her all day, worrying that something was wrong with the babe, but she knew next to nothing about birthing children and had no one to ask. Her father was too observant not to notice her wince, however, and his sharp eyes locked onto hers. He raised an eyebrow, not needing to speak for her to know he wanted an explanation.

"It's nothing," She knew it wasn't worth pretending it didn't happen, he had no patience for that. "Just a stomach complai - agh!" She was unable to stop the grimace this time, clutching her stomach in pain. This was definitely worse than the last few. Surely the child was nearly due by now, it had been a nine months and ten days since that night at Harrenhal. She'd been counting.

Her father's eyes narrowed as he opened his mouth to say something, but then a stabbing jolt of pure agony wracked through her and Giana cried out, cutting him off and grabbing at the back of the chair to remain standing upright.

"Giana," His voice was sharp, but he was on his feet in an instant, holding her up. She regained her footing, not looking at him, before crying out again as another wave of pain hit and clutching onto the front of his doublet. He held her in a strong grip, but barked for the guards to enter. "Get the Maester for Lady Giana," He ordered. "Now, go!" The guards practically fled at his snarl.

Her father placed his arm on her waist to guide her to the chair, but then froze as his fingers found the softness of the padding on her side, hidden under her dress. Giana felt ice run through her veins as he felt around her, feeling the hardness of her swollen stomach and the falseness of the padding on her arms and waist. He locked eyes with her own, which she knew looked incredibly guilty, but she stood by her decision and met his stare. He knew, just like that. He did not say a word, which was almost worse. She could honestly say she had never seen him so furious.

When the next hideous pain hit her, she half expected him to let her collapse into a heap on the floor. He didn't let her collapse. Instead, he sat her down in the chair none too gently, remaining standing himself, looming over her. She tried to turn her face away from him, but he grabbed her chin with rough fingers and forced her to look at him. He'd not even been this angry when Jaime had been raised to the Kingsguard. He had ranted and raged then, cursing Aerys; now he was silent, beyond furious. Whether he was more angry at the fact she was pregnant, or that she had managed to hide it from him for so long, she couldn't tell. He didn't speak, just stared at her, successfully making her cringe away. But then she stopped. It might have been the fact she fully expected to die soon, but a fit of recklessness suddenly overcame her. Enough was enough. Enough games, enough hiding, enough secrets. If any time was a time to talk plainly, it was now. She looked Lord Tywin in the eye.

"You'll kill me if you kill it now," Her words were practical, even though she was petrified - and sounded it - saying them. She never would've spoken to her father like that before, but it was the truth. His expression didn't change, even as she gasped in pain again.

"Harrenhal," He'd obviously worked it out in his head. His voice was low, deadly, and terrifying. She lost her nerve, looking away again. "Whichever stripling squire put that _bastard_ in your belly - "

"It wasn't a squire," She'd never interrupted him before, but that reckless energy had overtaken her. Imagining his reaction to the truth, she couldn't help but laugh a little hysterically. It wasn't funny, it really wasn't, but she laughed anyway, and couldn't look at him. "Far worse than that," His fingers tightened painfully.

"I swear to the gods if any lowborn scum dared to touch you - "

"It would be better if it was," She said. "Better a blacksmith than a rebellion leader," Her father stilled. A heavier silence had never been heard anywhere in Casterly Rock.

"Baratheon or Stark?" As if he even needed to ask. She looked at him with his own flat expression and his eyes narrowed dangerously. There was a heavy pause. For a man who placed such importance on his legacy, it had let him down somewhat. His heir run off to join the Kingsguard, his spare a dwarf, and now his daughter, who would be called a whore from King's Landing to Lannisport. Quietly, of course, very quietly, but the whispers would follow her wherever she went. She could see all of that going through his head, his fury building, but then she moaned as another jolt of pain wracked through her, and something seemed to change in Lord Tywin. He had put aside one issue, for now. She was under no impression whatsoever that this was forgotten, nor forgiven - it never would be - rather that there were greater concerns at hand. "Baratheons are... large. Even as infants," She gave another hysterical laugh as more sharp pain stabbed her. His face was cold and impassive, but she knew that this was as much fear as Tywin Lannister ever outwardly showed. Memories of the day her mother died were still fresh in both their minds, and his tight grip on her arm showed how truly tense he was.

"You think I don't know that?" She half-sobbed. "That's all that's been on my mind for months," It was then the Maester entered, accompanied by several guards. Her father rose stiffly.

"Prepare the birthing chambers for Lady Giana," He said, expression daring anyone to say a single word. To his credit, the Maester's expression only twitched in surprise for a fraction of a second before he was at Giana's side with a straight face, examining her.

"Apologies, my lord," He said, looking worryingly concerned. "She's too far gone. The contractions must have started early this morning," He glanced at Giana, who nodded. "It would be too dangerous to move her now," Tywin said nothing for a second before tensing his jaw and nodding, turning to the servants standing motionless at the door.

"Bring whatever the Maester requires here, quickly," He snapped. They scurried away with a list of things the Maester had ordered, returning soon after with numerous pillows, rags, basins of water and various metal implements, which looked like torture devices and made Giana's eyes bulge in panic. She was lain on the floor of her father's solar, feeling more and more scared by the second. Everything seemed to be going wrong, judging from the tense murmurs around the room they thought she couldn't hear. There wasn't enough time for a proper midwife to he brought in from Lannisport, and one of the older serving women with some experience would have to do. Those pains she'd been experiencing all day were apparently labour pains. The mortifying incident in the morning when she thought she'd lost control of her bowels was apparently her waters breaking. She felt a fool. How in the seven hells was she so ignorant about birthing a child, when that was all she'd been brought up to do?

"Father," She said shakily as Lord Tywin was just leaving the room, panic rising in her chest to an almost unbearable level. He stopped and looked down at her, his thoughts indiscernible from his face. "I'm going to die, I'm going to die like Mother. I - "

"You are not going to die," The words were nothing less than a threat. The Maester paled.

"Don't harm the child," Giana pleaded with him. "It's not their fault. You don't have to raise it, send it away if you have to, to Storm's End, or to the Starry Sept, or the Citadel, or even to the Wall. Just please, let it live," Tywin Lannister looked her in the eye, long and hard, before giving the smallest of nods and striding out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

The next few hours were torturous, and passed in a haze of pain, screaming and blood. Giana cried more than she ever had in her life, wanting nothing more than to punch Robert Baratheon hard in his handsome face. But then it was over, and her tears turned to those relief rather than pain as the maids propped her up with pillows. She watched as the little bundle was wrapped in swaddling cloths and taken away to be washed, feeling the most exhausted she had ever felt. She soon slipped into a deep sleep, waking later in her own chambers - someone must've carried her there - with a dull pain between her legs, her limbs still aching and throat sore from screaming, but alive. She was alive, she had made it, and so had her child.

"Clarissa," She called for her handmaid, voice cracked and hoarse. The woman appeared in seconds, bobbing a curtesy. "Where is it? The baby?"

"Him, milady," The usual cheery and laughing Clarissa didn't look her in the eye, and seemed scared to smile. "You have a son. I'll fetch him," A son... it was an odd thought, that she should be a mother when she was still a child herself. Giana wondered what she should name him as Clarissa hurried away. Naming him after his father was definitely out; the fewer people knew he was Robert's bastard the better. What names went with Hill? For that was definitely to be his last name, Father wouldn't let her call a bastard Lannister. He probably wouldn't even let her keep him at all, she reminded herself. It was blatantly obvious, and had only been confirmed by Clarissa's subdued behaviour, that Lord Tywin was angry. His rage would only have built up in the hours since she had last seen him, and now he knew she was alive and in no immediate danger... He hated being deceived, and by his own daughter nonetheless, in a way that brought such dishonour to the family. He was not going to let this go unpunished. The dread began to build in her again, though this time for entirely different reasons.

She looked up when the door opened, peering curiously at the bundle of blankets the nursemaid carried. Clarissa wasn't with her. The nursemaid lowered her arms to Giana's level, and, ignoring her painful aching all over, she curiously pushed the blankets away from his face.

The child was sleeping peacefully. His face was red and flushed, and a thick tuft of black hair grew on the top of his head. He seemed so small, and Giana said so.

"Hardly, milady," The nursemaid snorted dryly. She was a tall, thin middle-aged woman, who had clearly seen it all. "It's a miracle you made it through the birth, if I'm honest, you being so small. Weighs near eleven pounds, this one. A big strong lad, with a big strong voice to match, we only just got him to sleep. He'll be a fine warrior some day, milady," Giana looked doubtfully at the tiny baby, all the emotions warring in her head. She was faced with her firstborn son, her bastard son, yet wasn't sure how to feel. One thing was certain, though, and that was that she definitely did not feel like a mother.

"Can I hold him?" She asked after a moment's consideration. That was what mothers were meant to do, wasn't it? The nursemaid's tight smile became a little regretful.

"Sorry, milady," Her brisk tone softened slightly. "Not allowed, I'm afraid. Lord Tywin's orders,"

"Oh," Giana shouldn't have expected anything less. The thought saddened her more than she had anticipated. "Did my father say what would happen to him?"

"Not to the likes of me," The nursemaid shook her head grimly. "Must say, milady, I pity the poor young lad who got this child on you, for there ain't no place he can run where your lord father can't root him out," Giana gave a weak chuckle, not revealing that it was hardly a 'poor young lad' who was the baby's father, rather the hammer-wielding lord of Storm's End, who stood at six and a half feet tall. She pondered the woman's words for a moment.

"Do I get to name him?" She asked, and the nursemaid shrugged.

"Don't see why not,"

"It seems wrong to call him Hill," She mused. "It seems so... plain," She knew little about babies, but her son was anything but plain.

"Where was his father from?" The nursemaid asked.

"The Stormlands," Giana followed her thought. "Storm's their bastard name, isn't it? Yes, that suits him much better," If Robert did win the war, it was also a pointed reminder that the boy was his.

"Now all you need is a first name," Giana thought.

"I don't care what father says," She replied after a moment. That was a lie, but if nothing else, her son would have a name to be proud of, to know he was half a Lannister at least. "His name shall be Loreon, after the first King of the Rock, and the last, who escaped the Field of Fire. Loreon Storm,"

* * *

_Dear Jaime,_

_I write three days after the birth of my child. You are now an uncle to the biggest, fattest baby that ever lived. I felt like I was being ripped clean in half during his birth, but gladly all is fine. Fine now, anyway - I've never seen father more angry, not even when you joined the Kingsguard - but that's a story for another time. _

_But Jaime, I have a son. I'm now a mother, somehow. It seems surreal to even think that. I don't feel like a mother - if anything, it was like when we met Tyrion for the first time. His name is Loreon Storm. Of course father wouldn't let him be a Lannister, so I named him Storm in the hope his father may actually acknowledge him, if he's still alive after all this fighting is done. Storm sounds better than Hill somehow, and besides, he looks almost all Baratheon. Thick black hair already, and Robert's blue eyes, though I think he's got yours and father's nose. And as I said, he's huge for a baby. I should know, I still feel it now._

_Of course, father did not take the news well. That's to put it lightly. He's made it plain that there will be consequences. Better than I expected, in all fairness, but I'm to be sent away as soon as possible. Father has arranged a marriage to Quenten, Lord Banefort's eldest son. An irony in itself, Tyrion tells me to make me feel better - apparently it was the King of the Rock, Loreon I Lannister, who defeated the last Hooded King, Morgon Banefort . I haven't met my soon-to-be husband, but I've been asking around and by all accounts he seems decent enough. Clever, mild mannered, and fairly young (he's eight and twenty, I could do worse). His father is old and drinks excessively too, so I'll soon be Lady Banefort. Perhaps you can ask the king if you can attend the wedding?_

_I have no objections to my husband, I knew it would happen sooner rather than later anyway. It's just that Loreon won't be coming with me. He's to stay at the Rock. I suppose this makes sense. It will surely get out soon that he's a Baratheon bastard, I wasn't exactly subtle with naming him Storm. Father knows already, of course. I'm glad I blurted it out, or he'd have started hanging all the dark haired, blue eyed servants. Like I said, he is not pleased, I cannot emphasise that enough. I think he's planning to marry Cersei off to Robert if he wins, but I suppose if that falls through then he could turn things in his favour with Loreon. I don't know, I'm just guessing. I don't care much, either, so long as it means he won't kill him. All I want is for the child to be alive and safe. I won't see him grow, but that seems a small price to pay. It's probably for the best, anyway, I'm too young to be a good mother to him. I'll surely have more children with Quenten Banefort. _

_You'd love him, I know it. When the rebellion is over, you'll have to visit him. We can visit him together, I suppose._

_Cersei is well (I thought you'd want to know). I think she's enjoying this. She'll be rid of me soon, and gets to call me a whore at every opportunity even if she can't call me fat anymore. She missed you though. I found her crying in your rooms over one of your tunics you left behind once, months ago. She screamed at me to get out and threw one of your old hunting knives at me, but I thought I'd let you know. Tyrion is well too. He misses you greatly, even more so now I'm to leave soon. You should see him, Uncle Geri taught him tumbling tricks and he's a sight to behold, somersaulting and leaping all over the place. He seems fascinated that there's now someone in the family smaller than him. As for Cersei, she hasn't given Loreon anything but dirty looks whenever she sees him. She gets angry when he cries, but I won't let her near him, not after how she used to treat Tyrion when he was that age. I've told Tyrion to keep him safe when I'm gone. It'll be better than nothing. He asked me if Loreon could be his little brother. He might as well be, he's the same age now as I was when he was born. He said he'll teach Loreon to ride 'like Jaime taught me'. He misses you too, in case you couldn't tell. Come home when you can._

_Love, Giana_


	4. A Stark Of Winterfell

The face she saw reflected back at her in the looking glass made her want to cry.

Ross Stark never cried - she never laughed much either, no matter how much Lyanna called her dour, or Brandon teased her - but the sorry visage in the mirror made the weight of everything that had happened suddenly hit her like a ton of bricks and bitterness. She looked half dead. Her already long and sharp face was now nothing short of gaunt, her cheeks hollow and her skin holding a greyish sort of pallor that wouldn't have looked out of place on a corpse. The purple bruise smudging her jaw hardly helped, nor the raw scratch marks down one side of her face. Both eyes were shadowed with dark circles, and both were glassy, rather wet.

_A sorry sight to behold, Lady Stark_.

She mechanically pulled each pin out of her hair, one by one, letting it fall loose from the tight braided style it had been scraped back into my nameless handmaids, that only made her face look more pinched and plain. The dark strands hung dead straight, limp and listless, but at least concealed half her battered face. Ross knew she had never been beautiful, not like her sister, but she had never looked as pitiful as this in her life. And she hated it.

Underneath her dress - that hideous purple gown, gods she loathed that colour almost as much as she loathed the man who forced her to wear it - her skinny body was mottled with similar bruises and gouges, the skin broken in many places, and numerous scrapes and claw marks from where his hideous overgrown nails had torn at her. Some were fresh, some half healed, others fading to scars, but each and every one was another reminder of her helplessness, another addition to her frustration, more fuel for the furious, burning hatred that had been growing in her like a cancer since she arrived in the Red Keep and Aerys publicly mocked her for the first time atop the Iron Throne. _No wonder Rhaegar took the other Stark girl, this one seems half-dead already for all the life in her_. She knew that as she was almost a woman grown - and a daughter of the North - she shouldn't let petty insults from a madman hurt her. But she'd spent her whole life hearing the same thing. Ross had always liked to think herself stronger than the girl of almost sixteen that she was; she had been Lady of Winterfell since her mother's death when she was eight, after all, and had learned to run the entire household efficiently, as a lady should, ever since. If she couldn't be beautiful, then let her at least be clever, capable, made of steel. But this just showed that she wasn't even that. _A sad, plain, weak little girl_. Aerys hadn't said that; that was what she saw in the mirror. Tears welled in her eyes but she stubbornly refused to let them fall, even as her throat choked up. She never cried, and she wouldn't start for him.

She was too weak to go against him. Too pathetic to do anything but lie back and let the Mad King violate her. At first, she had merely been here as a guest ('guest', who were they fooling, she had been a hostage since the day she arrived) to ensure the North's good behaviour after the disaster at Harrenhal. Then Lyanna was kidnapped from her bed, then brave, reckless Brandon was imprisoned after yelling for Rhaegar to come out and die. The king had taken her for the first time that night. She knew then that her brother was as good as dead; if Aerys cared about making an enemy of House Stark, he would not have raped their eldest daughter. She had been a maiden, but that had hardly mattered. Her future marriage prospects were the least of her concerns at the moment.

And then Father arrived, walking into a trap she was helpless to prevent, and Ross' world turned to tangible ash before her very eyes. What followed had been over a moon ago, but she still relived it every day, every night, whenever she smelled anything burning, whenever she closed her eyes.

_Rickard Stark, her proud, strong, stern father who she had loved and respected her whole life, was hung from the ceiling, screaming in unimaginable agony as his flesh melted to ashes, burning in his own armour. Brandon, her big brother, all raucous laughter and wild charm, dark, wolfblooded and hot tempered, roaring in hatred and fury and pain as he strangled himself trying to save him in the Mad King's twisted game. Both dead before her eyes. Her father would never again stand as Lord of Winterfell. Brandon would never again ruffle her hair and call her little sister as she scowled and ducked away. Both gone, forever._

_She had tried desperately to help them, not caring for her dignity any more because Gods it was her family she was seeing die and she would've done anything to stop it. She had thought to hold onto her dignity with all she had during the last few months - it _was_ all she had here in the Red Keep - but what good was it now? Ross had never acted more like her wild younger sister than in that moment. Aerys had ordered her to be restrained, but she had fought viciously against the man who held her, kicking and lashing out at him as she screamed and begged and cursed, desperately trying to reach the sword to give to her brother, or to hell with it all and run Aerys through herself, but her captor had been too strong, holding her arms behind her back in an iron grip, and she, at the end of it all, was just a skinny girl. _

_She hadn't saved them. Of course she hadn't. They had died in front of her, her brother catching her eye in his last moments - expression full of righteous fury, telling her to see the man that did this dead - before collapsing for the last time. After that, she had just... stopped. Staring at her brother's choked corpse, and the blackened armour containing what was left of her father, her expression had gone completely blank and stony. She stopped struggling, regained her composure, realising that the man holding her back was Jaime. As she stood up straight, the young knight didn't release his grip on her; he may not have trusted her not to do anything stupid, but then, though it wasn't visible, she realised she could feel him shaking behind her. Tilting her head back, his eyes met her, horrified green meeting deadened grey. _

_Ross looked back. She didn't shake. She was looking straight at Aerys, who currently had the sick gall to be laughing, cruel amusement in his mad eyes. The seeds of hatred against the King that had been planted in her over recent months - every time he'd humiliated her, mocked her, insulted her family, kept her from the North in the first place - were blooming, growing like an insidious tumour. She hated Aerys, laughing at murdering her father and brother. She hated Rhaella, standing mutely beside him, too craven and weak to even say a word; Ross could see herself in her, and that made her hate the woman even more. She hated Rhaegar, the selfish fool who had taken her sister and caused this entire mess with a crown of winter roses, a flowery noose now stained with blood. She hated Viserys, she didn't care that he was a child. She hated the name Targaryen and everything they had done. She wished nothing more for them all to burn in that hateful fire and drown in their own tainted blood. _

_"Write to Lord Arryn," Aerys had stopped laughing, with one of his disconcertingly abrupt mood turns. He was now cold and cruel, yet his eyes were just as mad and unfocused, alive with fire and blood. "I want the heads of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark. Lord Eddard, now, I suppose," Malice coloured his tone. Oh, Ned... Her quiet brother would now be Lord of Winterfell. Aerys wouldn't get him too. _

_"He'll kill you," Her voice cut the silence, cold, sharp and matter-of-fact, and all eyes turned her way. "My brother will kill you. The North will take everything that's yours. And I will watch," Aerys sat forward on the throne dangerously, but Ross had already turned without another word, shrugging Jaime off her, face blank, dead. She left the throne room, walking steadily out of the room with fast measured strides. One part of her, the part anyone could see, was completely numb. It was a high insult to leave the presence of the King without permission, but what did she care anymore? What more could he do that could top what he had done already? The sounds of her boots on the stone floor had held the whole room's attention, as the only other sound apart from the King's laughter and the creaking of the still burning armour of Rickard Stark. No one followed her. _

_Jaime had been holding her so tight that she had bruises, she realised after. She wanted to hate him for it, but remembered his young, terrified eyes and couldn't bring herself to. _

That had been over a month ago. Soon, word came of the Quiet Wolf and the Storm Lord raising their respective banners, of Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully assembling the armies of the Vale and Riverlands in support, all to march on King's Landing.

Aerys had come to her again that night in half a mad fury, half a vicious delight. It had been even worse than the first time, somehow, and afterwards she had lain there in numb shock. It turned out that he _could_ take something more of hers, she realised then. He could take her pride. All whilst two of the Kingsguard stood outside listening, again, just as Jaime had always told her they did when the king raped the queen; Barristan Selmy and Gerold Hightower, she was sure to remember their names. The noblest knights in the realm, standing by and letting _that_ happen, because their oaths and honour said they must. Shit on their oaths and fuck their honour, for neither did any good to anyone except keeping the wickedest man in the kingdom safe.

Aerys had taken her half a dozen times since then. Weren't women meant to be afraid of rape? Ross was not afraid, had not been afraid for a minute once it had started. Perhaps she truly was dead inside, cold as ice. There was dread when she knew he was coming, yes, because it was painful, humiliating, degrading. But it was anger she felt, a burning hatred deep down inside. It wasn't the act of rape itself that bothered her, in truth - he could've found far more painful ways to torture her than that - but rather the loss of dignity, her lack of power to do a thing, the feeling of helplessness. She _hated_ feeling helpless, and she hated him.

Ross didn't care for the kind, well-meant smiles Lewyn Martell gave her. She loathed the grim looks of duty that Hightower, Selmy and Jonothor Darry wore, avoiding her accusing stare. And whilst Arthur Dayne ground his teeth at the injustice, clearly hating every second, that meant nothing to Ross. Actions spoke louder than righteous thoughts, and he did nothing; his precious morals might be being twisted by this, but that was hardly a hardship compared to what it was costing her. She occasionally found herself smiling at Oswell Whent's muttered sarcastic comments and dark humour; though he likewise did nothing to act against the King, at least he didn't pretend to have impeccable honour. No one would help her, and she was too weak to help herself. More often than not the king was gleeful in his torture of her, the pain he caused getting him off nearly as much as burning innocent people. Ross refused to make a sound no matter what he did. Refused to even move. Just stared at the ceiling and went away inside, for a long while after he left.

Lyanna would have fought. Lyanna would have done her best to kill the evil cunt, with only her bare hands. And Lyanna would have died. But at least she wouldn't be at his mercy, at least she would've chosen her own path. Ross had considered that option, more than once. It wouldn't be difficult. She still had her eating knife, it would be easy to stab Aerys with it when he came to her. But in the end, when it came to it, she couldn't bring herself to sign her own death warrant.

The knock at her door disturbed her from her dark thoughts.

She stiffened by reflex from where she sat at the mirror, but Aerys didn't knock. He was the king, she thought bitterly, of course he didn't. And he wouldn't come to her twice in one night. He didn't have the stamina. She remained silent, and the door soon opened anyway, a familiar figure slipping inside. She didn't turn around, rather watched his reflection, eyes staring straight ahead as the young man came to stand behind her. The seventh, and newest, Kingsguard knight. His green eyes narrowed in anger as he saw her battered face - she thanked the gods he hadn't had to guard her door himself during one of Aerys' visits yet (that couldn't be a coincidence) - but she raised her eyes to meet his own in the mirror and he closed his mouth from what he was about to say.

"Here," He said brusquely instead, setting the little bottle down on the dressing table. "It's cold, but the midwife said it should work the same," She had already uncorked it before he finished speaking and gulped the entirety of the murky potion down her throat without hesitation, fighting back a cough at the bitter taste. He watched her for a few seconds as she set the now empty bottle back down and set about removing the last few pins from her hair, never quite sure of how to act around her after a royal visit. "I can't stay tonight," He said eventually. "I can't. Look at you, it's not right," She fixed him with a glare and he broke off. He might know how to charm every girl under the sun, but there was something about her that always seemed to throw him slightly. That in itself was oddly satisfying.

"You didn't seem to mind last time," She said flatly. "This arrangement works for us both. You can shut your eyes and pretend you're fucking your sweet sister, if you like. I don't care," He still looked unnerved whenever she brought his sister up, clearly unused to anyone knowing at all, let alone speaking so casually of it. She had found out by chance, a slip of the tongue on his part - he had even threatened to kill her after; she had laughed in his face and asked who in the seven hells would she tell - but now she knew, the only one in the world who did. It didn't surprise her that he'd been with a girl before - look at him - and she found the fact that said girl was his sister was little more than incidental. Ross was sure if she thought about it hard enough she could find it wrong, disgusting, immoral, etcetera. But whatever had gone on with him and Cersei had been before Aerys, and anything before Aerys seemed irrelevant.

"Has anyone ever said how gentle you are with your words, my lady?" He said, tone no less irritated than before, his face twisting in anger but not at her. "I still don't know why you do it. After having that... _monster_ all over you, surely the last thing you want is..." He trailed off, though the meaning was clear. There was a silence.

"He thinks I'm his," She said after a while. At his questioning look, she continued sharply. "I'm not. Not his," The knight's lips twisted into a bitter, mocking smirk that he hadn't worn half a year ago, a look that didn't belong on such a young face as his, no more than the fury in her own eyes belonged to such a young woman. Girl. Her sixteenth nameday wasn't for a month.

"So it's a 'fuck you, your Grace', then?" He snorted humourlessly. "Can't say I blame you, though I wouldn't have taken the icy Lady Ross for the reckless type,"

"What would you do if you were me?" She turned to him then, eyes flashing in anger. "Be a good, faithful girl and only let your rapist into your bed?" Jaime's smirk became even less amused.

"Oh, I'd have made him kill me long before that," She didn't doubt him. He was rather like her sister in that sense, proud, reckless and blazing with life.

"Every time he's here, I ask myself if I should do just that," She said, and his smirk slowly dropped, eyes darkening. "What life is this to lead? It wouldn't be difficult to do. Get him to kill me, I mean. It's what my sister would do. Who knows, she might have done it already. But I just... can't," She raised her eyes to his, a faint smile on her lips. A tired smile. "I tell myself it's a greater show of strength to live and suffer through this than take the quick way out. The truth is, I have never been that brave. Of all the reckless things I could do, fucking you is the least of them. I'm just too craven for anything else," Jaime was silent for a moment.

"I've met cravens," He said eventually. "I've met brave men too. Brave or craven, doesn't matter, they always lose their stomach at some point in their first battle. But I think you have a stronger stomach than all of them, Ross, even if you're not as made of stone as everyone thinks. You'll survive this even if the rest of us end up dead in the dirt. There are some women who would've thrown themselves out a window simply because their future marriage prospects were ruined," _That's stupid_, she admitted to herself. _Better to be a spinster than dead_.

"A survivor," She considered, more to herself than him, shaking her head. "Either way, my father would be turning in his grave if could see me now. Or he would, if he ever made it to his grave," Her face darkened at the memory. "I wouldn't be surprised if Aerys threw his ashes into the Blackwater. Along with Brandon," She fell silent, but then her eyes glinted with dark amusement. "If _Brandon_ saw me now, he'd slit Aerys' cursed throat without a second thought," There was ice in her voice, but she spoke almost longingly. He paused.

"The day the Lord of Winterfell and his army hammers at those gates," He said, nodding to the window and the outside beyond. "I'll do it myself," She smiled then. A genuine smile, if small, which lasted a second and was mostly fuelled by hate. He returned it regretfully, neither of them truly believing that day would ever come - or if it did, that they would both live to see it, and they fell into another silence. "I still don't know how you can stand to have anyone touch you after him,"

"It's completely different with you," She said, because it was. The two weren't even comparable. Aerys was not her choice; Jaime was. There was all the difference in the world between lying motionless on a bed underneath a monster, burning with rage and hate, trying not to scream or kill herself, and to what she did with Jaime. There was another silence, which she broke with characteristic bluntness. "If you don't get this hideous dress off me then I swear I'll tear it to shreds myself," He laughed at that, mane of golden hair falling back off his face, and not for the first time she noticed how truly handsome he was. She didn't allow herself to dwell on that, or she wouldn't let it go. All he was was her escape from a Mad King. All she was was a poor (temporary) replacement for Cersei Lannister, the girl they called the Light of the West.

He stepped closer, and their lips met. Ross didn't let herself think of how she felt when his strong arms closed around her, drawing her close and warming her cold, stone self, so different from the brittle, grasping claws of Aerys. His hands were gentle but firm, experienced in ways she could never have expected. She didn't allow herself to consider the tempting possibility that he was doing this for her, that when he closed his eyes he wasn't picturing an achingly beautiful girl with blonde curls and a face like his own, instead of the dark-haired, cold girl he had.

They lay beside each other after, her turned away, staring at the opposite wall. She didn't allow herself to consider the small leap her stomach made whenever she saw him. Because she was not a foolish summer child, nor a sweet young maiden wanting a handsome knight to love her, nor even a secret romantic at heart behind a wall of bravado like Lyanna. Ross had never been like that, even as a girl, and gods knew she wasn't anything like it now.

She didn't allow herself to enjoy the lingering smell of him on the sheets when she lay awake at night, alone, unable to sleep, nor during the day when she could smell him on her hair. She was stone, she was ice, she was steel, and she would not be hurt any more than she had been already, least of all by a golden lion, least of all when it could be avoided.

Her maid - a spy, or maybe just as scared as she was - found her hidden bottle of moon tea the next day.

Ross was still hurting a week after that from what Aerys had done when he was told. Her moon tea was taken away, her room searched regularly for more, and every time he visited her she could never have enough baths or scrub hard enough to make herself feel clean. Predictably, within months her moon blood stopped and she spent each morning retching over the privy. There was only one conclusion, and the moment she realised she started retching all over again, wanting to claw it out of her with her bare hands, terrified it would come out a silver-haired, malignant beast with unnatural shades of violet and madness in its eyes. She couldn't stand the thought of some part of him growing inside her. She had begged (yes, begged) Jaime - who had cursed Aerys' name when he found out - to go and find a big rock.

"Do it," She said flatly as they stood in the godswood. He hesitated, eyeing her stomach, rock in hand.

"Ross, it could kill you," She rounded on him, letting a flash of her emotions show for the first time.

"If you don't have the guts for this, then you can just push me down the fucking stairs," She snarled like a cornered animal. "Or I'll - I'll do it myself," He gave her a pointed look at her hesitation, looking her in the eye as he dropped the rock deliberately onto the ground.

"You're not sure," He said. "I'd do it if that's what you want, you know I would. But you have to be sure. I'm not ending up as the man who killed your child if you regret this later," She had wanted to cry again - _you don't understand... but you almost do, and that makes it worse_ \- because there was also the impossible possibility that had been nagging at her, no matter how surely fate would never be so kind as to let her have this. Looking at Jaime then, she couldn't do it, even if the chances were beyond slim. What he said next convinced her further. "It'll be half Stark, no matter what. There's few enough of them left," Her resolve strengthened, and she made no protest when he left the rock on the ground.

Pregnancy was awful, but at least Aerys gave her somewhat of a respite, delighted over the fact he'd soon have his own 'great bastard'. Ross almost felt for Rhaella, who had to put up with not only the king's full attention, but also more abuse about supposedly being barren. Labour was worse, and lasted far longer than she'd imagined. However, she survived it. When the midwives carried over the bundle of swaddling cloths, she sat up, ignoring the pain, heart pounding. If she saw one glimpse of silver hair, she wasn't sure what she'd do.

But when she saw her son, Ross smiled a rare smile.

His hair was dark like her own, his eyes a bluish green. The one thing she let herself hope had become a reality when the child - _her child_, not a Targaryen monster, no matter how Aerys crowed that the Stark bitch had given him a bastard son, ordering a letter to be sent to Ned to gloat about the matter - was born. Ross didn't cry when she saw the boy, just held him close to her, never wanting him gone from her arms, burying her face in his tufts of dark hair, losing herself in his eyes. Aerys had seen the blue and announced with all his worldly knowledge that they would soon turn purple. They turned a more vivid green by the day; thankfully the king was irritated by babies crying, so didn't pay her son much attention. Good. She didn't want that monster laying his dirty hands on her son. She'd never felt love like it, and would gladly throw herself on a sword if it meant her son would be safe. It was unnerving to come to that realisation, but it was the truth.

Renan, she called the boy. A simple name, but it suited him.

Ross Stark sat in front of the same looking-glass a year and a half later, her son on her lap. She still looked half dead. More bruises and cuts marred her skin. She was still as plain, as skinny and as pale as ever. Aerys came to her most nights now, since Rhaella was gone, sent away to Dragonstone with Viserys as the rebels drew near. Ross was still in the same waking nightmare she'd been in for two and a half years. But nonetheless, things were looking up for once. She had seen the approaching army from the tallest tower of the Red Keep. Seen their numbers, marching down the Kingsroad, marching from the north. In that moment, she felt a grim satisfaction. _Winter is coming, House Targaryen_. The words had always been a warning, but never more so than now.

"Ned's coming soon," She murmured into her son's dark hair as she sat before the mirror. He looked up at her with intelligent green eyes, that didn't make her feel like a fool for talking to an infant. "He won the Trident, and Rhaegar is dead. That's one monster gone, justice for Lya. And the others won't be long for this world. We'll burn Aerys like he burned father. We'll choke the breath from his lungs like he did Brandon. We'll destroy his family like he destroyed ours. We'll make him pay, my boy. We'll make him bleed," She looked in the mirror, looked past the gaunt face, the limp hair, the bruises, the scars. She met the eyes of her reflection. Cold, grey and hard. The eyes of her father, her siblings, of thousands of years of Starks before her. Outwardly, she looked like a battered, beaten woman. But when she stood, she stood tall, her head held high, and her eyes held the coldness of ice, the strength of steel, the blood of the north. They always had, and always would. She was Rosennis, a Stark of Winterfell, and she would not be broken.


	5. Die Harder

Ross had never felt more afraid, nor more alive, than during the sack of King's Landing.

She'd been hoping, praying, for the northmen to be the first there. If not them, then at least Stormlanders, or Valemen, for she knew Robert Baratheon and had met Jon Arryn. But no. It was red-cloaked guardsmen that burned the city, broke into homes, robbed, raped and murdered citizens. Red cloaked men who, as far as she knew, were not her brother's allies.

The Red Keep held out for longer than the rest of the city, which had literally opened its gates for the invading army; she had yet to discover who's decision that folly had been. Despite the sounds of chaos and death that drifted up Aegon's High Hill to the castle, inside the Red Keep was eerily silent. All the guards were out defending the walls, except the few left to watch over Elia Martell and the children. Elia had sent word to Ross, inviting her to join her and her ladies in the Maidenvault, but as with most of Elia's well-meant invitations over the last two years, Ross had refused. She had remained in the godswood with Ren, not praying exactly, just sitting. She seldom had a guard, before the sack - even if she had left her rooms to escape in the night, she would hardly have got very far - but Aerys had got it into his head that she would try and sneak Lannister soldiers into the keep, so had assigned a Targaryen guardsman to watch over her. She had ignored the man - boy, really, perhaps even younger than her and Jaime, pale faced and wide eyed - and he stood some distance away.

The sounds of swords clashing were growing louder.

"They're almost in," Ross said absently, and the guard swallowed, visibly nervous. She glanced back at him, frowning. "I'd take that uniform off, if I were you,"

"M-milady?" The boy stuttered.

"The Targaryens have lost," She said, wondering why she had to elaborate. "Anyone with a red dragon on their chests when the lions come hunting is as good as dead," Her words were matter-of-fact rather than cruel, but he blanched even more, if that was possible.

"I don't want to die, Lady Stark," He sounded scared out of his wits. Ross was too, inside. If it had been Stark men howling at the walls then she would've been celebrating. But it wasn't. She wasn't sure what the Lannisters would do with her if they found her. Herself alone was one thing, but her son - who everyone believed was Aerys' bastard - was quite another. It depended which Lannister men found her, she supposed. The uncertainty made it all the more terrifying. _And Jaime... Jaime's with the king, he's the last Kingsguard here, he's eighteen and in charge of holding the city, when it's his father's army tearing it all down_.

"It's easy enough for you," She said, a touch impatiently. "Just find some spare kitchen boy's clothes and stay out the way, you might as well be invisible," It wouldn't be easy for her to do the same. In all liklihood, she'd be better off staying as Rosennis Stark; a highborn lady might be of far more interest to an invading army than a servant girl, but she was far less likely to be robbed or raped than a nameless scullery maid, for her value in ransom alone. At least, that's what she hoped. She had considered hiding Ren, leaving him somewhere safe where he'd be unlikely to be discovered, but it hadn't taken long for her to decide against that option. There was too much risk leaving her son with anyone who wasn't her. Others might swear to protect him, especially if she gave them a silver necklace or two as payment, but ultimately no one would die for him but herself.

"I can't leave you and your boy unguarded," His voice actually showed some conviction then. She raised an eyebrow. "Not saying you'd try and escape, you'd have to be mad to go out there alone," The lad had some sense then. He might just survive the day. "But what if them soldiers come for you in here? There's all sorts of horrors go on at times like these, Milady," She was almost touched by that.

"I think all that would be achieved by you staying with me, if the soldiers do come," She said wryly. "Is the same outcome as if you left, just with one more dead body," He opened his mouth as though to protest, then realised she was right. His shoulders slumped, and she knew she'd won. "Go," She insisted. "They'll be here soon," He went.

She had been planning on waiting in the godswood until whoever was going to find her did. The godswood was large, on the east side of the castle nearer the sea, and for the most part dense with trees and bushes. She could quite easily stay here until all the fighting was over. But for whatever reason, she didmd want to. This place had been her escape for so long, but now she felt trapped. Not knowing what was happening was near unbearable. When another thought rose in her mind - that the godswood was so quiet and deserted, some rogue soldier could quite easily slit her throat and leave her corpse there with no one any the wiser who did it - she picked up her son and left.

The empty halls of the castle were eerily quiet. Her footsteps echoed horribly on the stone floor, and Ren was being a nuisance, squirming in her arms and refusing to stay still; he was getting too big to carry for very long, which didn't help. When he started to grisle, she hurriedly tried to shush him, but then froze. That was another set of footsteps, heavy booted feet, fast coming her way. She thought about running, but with Ren she wouldn't get far. Her arms were already aching, and at a year old, he could barely walk by himself, definitely not fast enough to outrun marauding soldiers.

It was only Jaime. That was her first thought, one of abject relief, and then she saw the blood dripping from his golden sword onto the flagstones. He barely seemed to see her at first, eyes grim and face set.

"Whose blood is that?" She asked, matching her stride with his, as he barely stopped to acknowledge her.

"Rosshart's," Came the flat reply. From that alone, she could tell that something was different. He'd finally snapped. She felt a stab of satisfaction at the news of Rosshart's death._ He was there when Father died_. She'd been sure to find out the name of the man who had built and lit the pyre under Rickard Stark, commit it to memory for when Ned came. _For what?_ _Justice. Revenge? _Whatever you called it, the outcome was the same. Jaime continued to speak. "Aerys gave him the command to burn down the city. Him and those other three have been hiding wildfire everywhere for months. I caught him dressed as a man-at-arms trying to sneak out the postern gate," Ross' eyes widened. Not even in her worst nightmares had the king displayed that level of complete and utter insanity. Jaime's lips twisted into an unpleasant smirk. "He also ordered me to bring him my father's head,"

There was no need to ask where they were going next. The look in his eyes said it all; not quite there, but deadly focused. There was nothing in the world that could've stopped Jaime doing what he was planning on doing. She was under no pretences that he wouldn't use that sword to cut down any man in his way.

They didn't go to the enormous main doors of the throne room, which each took three men to open; instead, Ross followed Jaime around to the much smaller door behind the throne. He paused, raising an eyebrow in question. She didn't need clarification, and nodded stiffly, jaw set. She had never wanted anything more in her life.

He pushed open the door, slipping inside. Aerys was pacing before the Iron Throne, up and down, up and down, picking at his scabs and muttering to himself. She remained in the shadows for a few moments longer, turning Ren so he faced her chest, whilst Jaime approached the Mad King. He wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard, but that was where the white ended; his armour was as golden as his sword.

"Is that Tywin's?" Aerys demanded of Jaime, waving a hand at the bloody sword. Jaime said nothing, and the king grew visibly angrier, even more agitated, spittle flying from behind his long, matted beard. "I told you, boy, bring me your father's head! Treachery, betrayal, I won't have it. I will not! I am the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, the blood of the dragon, and unless _that_ is the blood of Tywin Lannister, you'll burn with the rest of them!" _No, you mad fool, we'll all burn together_. Jaime remained silent, but his eyes glinted.

Ross stepped out from behind the throne. Her footsteps were impossibly loud, dark dress brushing against the floor, as Aerys raised his violet eyes up to stare at her.

"Why are you here, wolf-girl?" There was disdain on his tongue, and Ross had never hated anyone more.

"I wanted to see," She'd rather do the deed herself - she'd make it last, where she doubted Jaime would - but she didn't hold the sword, and she knew there was absolutely no chance of him giving her his, not now. Something in her tone or her look must've made Aerys uneasy, because his eyes darted back to Jaime.

"Whose blood is that?" He said now, in a dangerous, raspy whisper, voice rising in volume as he spoke. "Whose, whose, whose, whose - "

"Rosshart's," Jaime cut off his ravings, the word echoing throughout the cavernous room. There was a second of silence as Aerys stared at him blankly. Then the king's eyes bulged as the realisation hit. Jaime started forward, and Aerys screamed, anger, hatred, madness and fear all in one terrible sound. He fled, still squealing, for the safety of the throne, as though the ugly mass of swords would protect him. He'd pissed himself, Ross noted absently, in mild disgust. He barely made it to the third step. She watched in grim satisfaction as Jaime hauled the last dragonking off the Iron Throne, as he screamed obscenities, threats, mad jibberings... And then it was ended, with a single slash across the throat.

Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, collapsed in an undignified heap before his former throne, throat opened from ear to ear, a pool of red fast spreading out underneath him, soiling the royal silks and satins. They watched him cough and splutter, pitifully gasping as his lifeblood leeched out of him, and then he was dead.

Jaime looked up at her, green eyes steelier than she'd ever seen them. She looked up at him, face blank. In her arms, Ren started to cry.

"Ross,"

He didn't have time to get another word out before the main doors burst open. Dozens of armed Lannister men were suddenly stood there, frozen at the sight before them. They'd probably had orders to take Aerys captive, wait for Tywin Lannister, Ned, Robert to finish him off. They clearly hadn't expected to find their lord's eldest son stood over the body, sword and armour red with blood, a baby crying in the background. _No denying it. No hiding it. This moment will go down in history_. She wondered, as she hastily tried to quiet her son, whether she'd be written down in it or not. She hoped not.

A second or two passed. Some of the westermen were looking at Jaime with accusing looks as they took in the scene, judging the man who broke his vows and killed his king. Others showed hints of fear, for no one was more frightening than the man who cared so little for his solemnly sworn oaths. But most were simply gaping in pure undisguised shock.

A big, burly man with a boar on his shield, clearly a lord - Crakehall, Jaime had told her about him, the man he squired for since he was twelve - made the first move, stepping forward, fixing his steely gaze on Jaime. He, of all of them, didn't seem at all surprised.

"The city is ours, my lord," He said, nodding in slight deference. There was a silence; she had finally managed to quiet the baby.

"The king is dead," Jaime said needlessly, but his tone had changed. It was sharper, closer to a commander's voice than a laughing boy of eighteen, and his back had straightened the moment his father's men entered the room. At least a lifetime of been taught by Tywin Lannister hadn't been entirely for nothing, no matter what he pretended. "Spare all those in the castle who yield," Of course, Targaryen loyalists would still be fighting all over the keep. Ned and his men would be racing down the Kingsroad as they spoke, seeing the smoke pluming above the city. Crakehall nodded, glancing back at his men, who didn't need to hear their orders twice and left to see them carried out.

"The king is dead," The man acknowledged. "Shall I proclaim a new one?" The meaning was very clear. Ross hadn't thought that far, everything had ended in Aerys' death, but of course, the rest of the world moved forward. She glanced back at Jaime - she would kill him herself if he acted in Tywin Lannister's best interests and proclaimed Aegon or Viserys King of the Seven Kingdoms, with his father as Hand - but after a tense few seconds, he laughed harshly.

"Proclaim who you bloody well like," She let a small smile flit across her face, as he turned away from the remaining westermen in clear dismissal, and climbed the Iron Throne. They all filed out, Crakehall giving one last, unreadable look at Jaime, who was now seated, sword lain across his knees. For want of anything else, Ross seated herself on the lower steps, enjoying the sight of Aerys' still bleeding body in an undignified heap. She looked up at Jaime.

"Thank you," Was all she said. He laughed, still a little bitter but it was more genuine than before.

"It wasn't just for you, you know," She smiled.

"Of course not," She agreed. "But you did it all the same," Then added. "Even if it was rather quick. Easy,"

"A king should die harder than that," He agreed. Ren squirmed on her lap, and it was only then that she realised her son was peering at the dead king's corpse with that suspicious look he tended to have when he was unsure of something.

"Consider yourself fortunate," She told her son as she turned him around. "You were one of three people to see the last Targaryen king die, even if you won't remember it,"

"Die," Ren said; he had started picking up words a month or so ago, though he had yet to call her Mother, or even Mama; she was simply 'Mam' to him. Ross disliked children as a rule, but found she didn't mind her own so much.

"Look what we've done to the boy," Jaime said, a hint of dark amusement in his tone. "Traumatised already," She chuckled. It all felt rather surreal, in truth, that Aerys was dead. She was pleased, certainly, but rather numb too. In her arms, Ren had lost interest in the body and had started to fidget. She set him down on the floor, away from the throne as he was like to grab hold of it to pull himself upright and cut his hands, watching him totter off to examine the dragon skulls on the wall. They remained in silence for a few minutes, watching her son, until she paused; she could hear the sounds of an approaching group of men.

"Jaime," She said, and he was listening too, eyes sharpening. She got to her feet and hurried to collect Ren. By the time she had returned to stand next to the throne, the doors had burst open again, and all else was forgotten. A man she hadn't seen in over two years strode in, at the head of a group of northern soldiers all in mail, leathers and furs. He looked older, harder, even more solemn and grim-faced than before, but he was still her brother, still the boy she had grown up with.

"Ned," The name was barely a whisper on her lips, but her heart sang at the sound of it. It had been far too long since she had been this close to anyone from her family. The last time had been Father and Brandon's deaths, and she hadn't seen Ned, Ben or Lya since Harrenhal, over two years ago. Her eyes met his, steely grey on steely grey, joy at being reunited, at seeing the other unharmed, his anger at seeing Ren in her arms, but now wasn't the time. Her brother had already seen the dead king on the floor, had already seen Jaime Lannister sitting in the throne above them, and Ross saw the judgement in his expression. Whilst Jaime proclaimed loudly that the throne was an uncomfortable seat, giving it up to Lord Stark, she glanced down at Ren, who was eyeing everyone warily.

"Don't look so suspicious," She muttered, smiling faintly as she adjusted him on her hip. "That's your uncle. I've told you about Ned, haven't I," Jaime climbed down, and caught her eye for a split second. Her brother followed his look as his men dispersed themselves, the throne room no longer silent as they started talking amongst themselves, and Eddard Stark ascended the steps to claim the Iron Throne for Robert. They would talk later, she knew. Not here. Not now.

Ross slipped out the way she had come, through the door at the back of the room, and returned to her rooms. With all the northmen here, the godswood would no longer be the solace of solitude it had been previously. Her rooms were where Ned found her later, as darkness fell over the city. Robert Baratheon, having arrived with much loud fanfare and cheers from his army, now reigned over the Seven Kingdoms, and Aerys Targaryen was dead. She should be delighted, celebrating with the rest of the northern army, but all she wanted to do was go home.

When she saw Ned there in the doorway, several hours later, she got up from the bed and walked swiftly forward him, he toward her, and was soon locked in a crushing embrace. Ross rested her head on her brother's chest - he'd grown, even since she last saw him - as he held her tight, neither willing to let go. Ned smelled like blood and sweat, but also of home, of happier times, and she found herself blinking back uncharacteristic tears as a rush of emotion overwhelmed her.

"Are you alright?" He looked down at her with sharp grey eyes. "Gods, tell me you're alright,"

"I'm fine," She said, and for the first time in months and months, she nearly was. "And you're fine too. My lord," She smiled slightly sadly.

"I hate people calling me that," He frowned. "It should be Brandon. It should be _Father_,"

"But it's you," She said. "For better or worse, it's you," He sighed heavily.

"I know that," He said. "It's just... hard to get used to,"

"You seem to have managed well enough," She said flatly. "The lords would've followed any man south after the insult done to House Stark, but you actually led them. You've proven you're capable and competent. You've earned their respect," He said nothing to that. They were interrupted by Ren waking up early from where she'd put him down to sleep in his crib. He was getting too big for that crib now; good thing they were leaving soon.

"Is that - ?" He broke off as she stood to take the boy in her arms.

"My son," She said flatly, glancing up at him. "Not the late king's, no matter what he told you," Ned's face visibly relaxed. Probably at the thought of not having to talk Robert and Tywin Lannister out of killing his sister's son as a potential claimant to the throne. The obvious question was who the boy's real father was, but he didn't ask that. Not yet, anyway.

"So he didn't..." Ned looked at her as she shushed Ren back to sleep against her shoulder. His meaning was clear. Her lips set in a straight line; she knew what kind of things Aerys dictated to be in that letter. Most of it was true. If it had been up to her, no one would know aside from those who witnessed it; several maids, the king and the kingsguard.

"I didn't say he didn't believe the boy to be his son," Was all she said to that. Her brother's eyes darkened, and there was a long silence.

"I'd hoped..." He trailed off, but Ross understood. He'd hoped all those taunts were just empty words, that the king wouldn't lay a hand on the daughter of a great house. This being the same king who murdered the girl's father and brother, that hope was rather in vain. "But I hadn't truly expected he'd spare you anything, not after Father and Brandon," He looked out the window. "I spent half the afternoon trying to persuade Robert to send the Lannister boy to the Wall," He said eventually. "But though he's an oathbreaker, a kingslayer, what that madman did to you... to Father, to Brandon - I can't help but..." He trailed off. Ned was questioning the concept of honour. She never thought she'd see the day. _I suppose war changes everyone_. Another silence, as she sat down on the bed, Ren in her lap, now asleep again.

"Aerys asked him to kill his father," Ross wasn't sure why she said that. "During the sack of the city. Said 'bring me Tywin's head, or burn with the rest of them'," Ned sat down beside her. "What would you have done?" She already knew, as did he, evident from his lack of response. Instead, he changed the subject.

"Who is Jaime Lannister to you?" She gave him a hard look.

"He stood outside my door, like the other Kingsguard all did, whilst Aerys came to visit," She said. "He held me back when Brandon and Father were killed, so tight I had bruises. But he also was the only one who had the decency to come back after Aerys had gone. Check I hadn't hung myself from the bedposts. I saw his eyes when they burned Father, when the king defiled me, brutalised the queen - the same look was there today, as he slit Aerys' throat," Ned shook his head, grimacing.

"I'm so sorry, Ross,"

"Don't be," She shrugged. "You fought a war to get here. What more could you do?" He didn't say anything to that, but she could see he was clearly unhappy, despite wearing his usual expression that would've just seemed cold to anyone else. "Here," She held out her now-sleeping son to him. "His name is Renan, but I call him Ren. You'd best get some practice," He smiled faintly at that, carefully taking her son from her and moving his hands as directed.

"My son's name is Robb," He told her. "Lady Catelyn says he's strong and healthy,"

"Perhaps they'll get to know each other at Winterfell," She said idly, reaching over to adjust his hands a fraction, and Ren settled into his arms.

"Ross?" She looked up at Ned. "Who's his fa - "

"Don't," She said, tone immovable. "Not now. I'll tell you at some point, just... not now,"

"A touching picture," A voice said from the door. She jerked her head up, and he was there, out of his armour but still with his sword at his hip. He'd be foolish not to carry it, the amount of people in the castle who would see him dead. "Sorry," Jaime said, pointedly to Ross. "I thought you'd be alone," Both Ross and Ned raised an eyebrow at that. _Gods, where are you going with this_. "Your mind immediately goes to the gutter, Stark?" Jaime gave Ned a mildly incredulous look. "I might have broken one oath, but that doesn't mean I break the others. I'm not a lustful womaniser like your good friend Robert - apologies - his Grace, the king. Least of all towards your dear sister," She wanted to laugh, and hit him at the same time. He was a good liar when he wanted to be, and just as good at riling people against him. Ned clearly wanted to hit him. She didn't blame him.

"Have more faith in me, Ned," She said, not having to fake the slight irateness of her tone that her brother would even suggest that she would jump into bed with a handsome knight, given what they'd just discussed. Regardless of the fact that that was exactly what she'd been doing. He looked a little abashed at that, and sent an apologetic look her way.

"It's not you I don't trust," He said. Jaime laughed at that.

"What, you think me a _raper_?" He grinned in a way designed to infuriate anyone on the receiving end. "Is that why you wanted me at the Wall so badly?" He didn't wait for a reply. "It is possible, Stark, for me to simply wish to speak with Lady Rosennis," He hadn't called her that in so long, it sounded strange to her ears. "After all, it's not every day two people, ah, witness the murder of a king," He glanced at Ren. "Well, three people, but the baby can hardly discuss the matter," Ned looked far from convinced, but was unwilling to risk Ross' ire. She doubted he honestly believed she'd do anything she shouldn't. That had always been Lyanna's role, or Brandon's. Ross and Ned had generally done as they were expected to, though she doubted anyone could've expected either of them to end up here. Her brother got to his feet, handing Ren back to her.

"Best not drop him, Stark," Jaime said mildly. Ned raised an eyebrow, and he elaborated. "I've spent a lot of time around that little whelp whilst the king was... occupied," He sent a glance in Ross' direction, which they all caught, then continued, a sharper edge to his tone. "It's rather difficult not to become attached to an infant you've spent hours trying to keep quiet, so his mother's rapist doesn't come out into the corridor and... cause trouble," It was true, even Aerys had been put off by Ren's wailing whenever he came to her chambers, and usually had his crib temporarily moved out into the corridor, where the Kingsguard stood by the door. Ross hadn't known about what Jaime had just revealed, however, having merely assuming her son stopped crying when he was away from the king, and blinked in surprise.

"Why would you - " She broke off, voice catching in her throat. _Why would you say that, now, in present company?_ To prove a point? _He doesn't know Ned_, she remembered. She had talked about him a little, but not in any sort of detail. For all he knew, her brother was the type to put the blame on her for the king's actions, as many would, though she was about as far from promiscuous in appearance as could be; barely even approachable, in fact.

"Ross?" Ned started towards her in concern, as did Jaime - they both sent dirty looks at each other, perhaps for the use of her nickname - but she shook her head.

"It's fine," She insisted, quickly schooled her face back to normal. "Can I see you some time tomorrow, Ned, or will you be in meetings with Robert all day?" Her brother's face hardened.

"Robert and I won't be having any meetings for the foreseeable future," He said coldly. "Not after he saw the bodies of Prince Aegon and Princesses Rhaenys wrapped in red cloaks, and praised Tywin Lannister for the _gift_," There was practically ice coating that last word. _Ah_. "I confronted him after. He said he saw no children, only Dragonspawn," Ross' eyes widened a fraction. She hadn't even known they were dead, and didn't feel as much regret as she should. _They were children_, one part of her cried in protest, _they were innocent. Aegon was barely older than Ren_. The darker side of her whispered that they had the same diseased blood as Aerys, Rhaegar, and countless mad, dangerous Targaryens before them. But if the children were dead, Elia likely was too. That would cause no end of trouble with Dorne. As if they hadn't had enough war as it was.

"What now?" She asked numbly.

"I'm leaving in three days, with the northern army," He said, resolve set. "I'll break the siege at Storm's End. Then the army returns North,"

"And you?"

"I continue south to Dorne, with a small force, to find Lyanna," There wasn't much hope there. By this point, they'd be lucky to even find her body, especially when word got out Robert had condoned the death of Elia Martell and her children; Dorne would not be hospitable to any Stark, that was for certain. She smiled a little bleakly.

"Remember to come back here when you find her," She tried being optimistic for once. "Don't leave me behind,"

"There's no chance of that," He said grimly. There was a short pause. "See you tomorrow,"

"Tomorrow," She nodded. He stared at her for a second or so, then turned and left, leaving her and Jaime alone with Ren. He said nothing, just watched her, so she turned away from him to put the baby back in the crib. As she straightened, she felt a pair of arms snake around her waist, warm and familiar. She let herself lean back against his chest, her head fitting under his chin, and felt more at peace than she had done in a long time. They hadn't had much time together over the last months, not with the rest of the kingsguard gone and Aerys becoming increasingly paranoid. But they had never had a time like this, not where there was no shadow of the Mad King looming over them. At that thought, she twisted her fingers in his long curls and brought his head down so their lips met. He responded in kind; not rushed, not frantic, but slower and somehow just as passionate. It was dark by now, most of the castle asleep. They could do what they liked, and they did. As they lay together in her bed afterwards, she found herself unable to sleep. The thought had just struck her harder than it ever had before that as the war ended, so did this.

She knew he didn't love her. He enjoyed her company, yes, or he wouldn't be here. They were, daresay, friends. He cared for their son, that she knew for sure, even if he didn't say it in as many words. Perhaps he even felt some level of affection towards her - his anger towards Aerys for what he'd done, far more angry than he'd got for Rhaella, was proof of that - but any affection that might be there was not in that sense. No, Jaime only loved one woman in that sense, his beautiful twin sister, who he would soon be able to see for the first time in years.

And Ross was to go north again. In truth, she couldn't wait; all she'd wanted since Harrenhal was to go home, to be safe behind the walls of Winterfell with her son, as far away from this cursed city as she could be. Far, far away. Her lips tightened.

Of course, he couldn't come with her. Even the suggestion was utterly foolish. Wouldn't come with her. And as far as she knew, she was still betrothed to Roose Bolton, if word of her treatment at Aerys' hands hadn't got out, which she doubted Ned would have allowed. He was a kingsguard besides. Well, for now. There was always the possibility Robert would release him from service as punishment for killing Aerys, but that was unlikely as most would see that as a reward, enabling him to inherit Casterly Rock. In which case, he most likely would be sent to the Wall. Closer to Winterfell, but just as unreachable.

And he didn't love her.

Ned left three days later. Robert didn't see him off, still furious about their argument, but a week after he left the new king seemed to have forgotten it already. Whenever Ross spoke with him - which was fairly regularly, he seemed to like having a Stark around even if it wasn't her brother or sister - he often spoke of his eagerness to see Lyanna again, his desire to have gone with Ned to find her, that they'd marry as soon as she got here. A slight change from the last time she'd seen him, when he'd been sneaking off to bed Giana Lannister, but clearly fighting a war for someone makes you somewhat more dedicated. Ross had dared to suggest that Lyanna - even if she was alive - may not want to marry so soon after such an ordeal. Robert had listened and nodded, but effectively waved her words off, not out of malice but out of complete unconcern. This was a man who had got everything he wanted if he tried hard enough, whether that be drinks, women or the Iron Throne itself. Why wouldn't his betrothed want to marry him straight away, after he'd just fought a war to get her back?

Even Elbert Arryn - who Ross had managed to talk out of the ridiculous notion of going to Dorne with Ned, despite the fact he could barely walk after eighteen months rotting in Aerys' dungeons - agreed with her, making the observation in private that Robert seemed to be doing everything he could except running the kingdom, brushing all that off onto Jon Arryn until, he claimed, after his and Lyanna's coronation. Ross could've been concerned by that, by the fact that Robert likely never would throw himself into the responsibilities of being king, but found she really didn't care. She would leave this place as soon as Ned returned, perhaps with Lya too.

She stood in the courtyard the day her brother returned, awaiting his arrival; he'd sent word ahead earlier that morning. _Lord Stark will be here by late afternoon_, the rider had said. Robert had grinned and asked how the Lady Lyanna was faring, if she was excited for the coming wedding. There had been a nasty silence; the king's face darkened as he caught on, and demanded the man speak_. Lord Stark is returning to visit_, the rider had said. _Before escorting his sister's bones back north_. Robert, for once, had not said a word. Instead, he had turned and left the room, his face as stony as Ross' own in front of the court. She herself had cried upon returning to her rooms, weeping quietly into the washbasin for what seemed like an eternity. She hadn't cried in so long, it was almost like everything that had happened coming up at once. _Father, Brandon, Lya, Lya, Lya_.

Ross wore a black dress to greet Ned that day, black boots, a black cloak, as black as her mood. Her eyes were red though, if you looked close enough. Robert stood at her side, face uncharacteristically solemn, in matching black. His eyes were red too, though few people were tall enough to notice unless they stared, which she had. Ross couldn't stop looking at the covered wagon being pulled by the draft horse at the centre of the small, ragged group. She didn't miss the fact that all his companions bar Howland Reed were not with him, either. Her brother said nothing, just dismounted his horse, and walked up to Robert, argument forgotten.

"She was alive when I found her," His voice and expression were cold, but Ross could see his grief. "And died of a fever less than a day later,"

"A fever," Robert's voice was hoarse. "Ned, I - " He broke off, swallowing. He wouldn't show his grief in front of everyone, she knew that much. Not as a king, but as a man. Ross had planned on following their conversation, but her attention was caught by the lone woman in their party, a young woman, holding a bundle of what were undoubtedly swaddling cloths. She glanced sharply at Ned, who shook his head ever so slightly. She kept her mouth shut as her brother went inside with the king.

She spent hours in her rooms as Ned undoubtedly stayed with Robert in his grief. Then her brother came to her, followed by the woman who had ridden with him.

She was undoubtedly lowborn but not badly off, judging from her clothes which, though simple, travel-worn and dusty, were well-made and of reasonable quality. She had a pointed, bird-like face, a petite frame, and whilst she was no great beauty, she was pretty enough, with the big brown eyes and dark hair of a stony Dornishwoman. The girl - for she certainly was a girl now she saw her up close, no older than sixteen - smiled sweetly but slightly nervously when she saw Ross, casting her eyes down at the floor. And in her arms she carried a baby with hair the same colour as her own son's.

"This is Wylla," Ned introduced. "Wylla, this is my sister, the Lady Rosennis,"

"Milady," The woman bobbed a curtsey, glancing up to falter slightly under Ross' intense stare. There was a heavy silence.

"Who's the child?" Ross turned to her brother.

"My bastard son," He said flatly, without a change in his expression. Ross blinked. "His mother was unable to join us, so Wylla is acting as his nursemaid," The idea of Ned having a bastard was not as unbelievable as most people would think. A surprise, certainly, but he did not know his new Tully wife, and had been fighting a war after the deaths of half his family; it wasn't impossible that he had sought comfort in drink one night, and ended up in the arms of a whore. The idea of him bringing the child north with him wasn't strange either; it would've been stranger to hear that he had a bastard he knew about and not provided for it in some way. But there was something off about this story. She had an odd feeling. Ned could lie, she knew he could, but never to her.

"Are you sure Wylla isn't his mother?" She raised an eyebrow. Perhaps that was it. Lie, so the boy's mother could be around him as he grew, without insulting Lady Catelyn so much as to house the woman he broke his vows with right under her nose.

"I am sure," Ned said, a touch of resignation in his expression. She didn't think he was lying about that, but she wasn't sure. She doubted he'd have gone for someone so young. She nodded.

"Very well," She said, turning to Wylla herself. "What is your story, then? You don't just become a wet-nurse by accident," Her meaning was clear. She didn't ask that out of judgement, which the girl clearly realised as Ren gave a small cry behind her and Ross gave her a wry look, to which she smiled slightly sadly.

"I grew big with child after my soon-to-be husband left for war, before we could be married," She said; her voice was soft, but with a definite Dornish accent. "He never came back. Then I lost the baby. I was a maid in the Dayne household, but left with Lord Stark when he needed a nurse for his son," Ross inclined her head absently, an apology of sorts, but inside her mind was racing. _Dayne? He seemed quite taken with Lady Ashara at Harrenhal, and her with him, but that was far too long ago, they can't have seen each other since. No, that's not right_.

"Can I?" She reached out towards the baby. Wylla carefully transferred him into her arms, stepping back. Ross peered down at the boy's little face, and was met with a pair of grey eyes. Stark eyes, unmistakably. Even at this age, he had a little of Ned's look, too. They had lost Lyanna, but there was no doubt that they had gained another Stark child. "What's his name?"

"Jon," Ned spoke. "Jon Snow, when we return north. He's to stay in Winterfell, I won't have him fostered out,"

"Your wife won't like that," Ross observed, not caring much either way what the Tully woman thought. She understood the love a parent had for their child; she would kill anyone who tried to separate her from Ren.

"My wife won't have a say in it," There was an edge of ice to his voice, and she smiled.

She had a surprising visitor to her door that night. She heard the faint knock and assumed it was Jaime. _Who else would it be at this time?_ He had spent the days after the sack hunting down the pyromancers Belis and Gargius, the only others who knew of Aerys' plans to burn the city. _Strange... I thought he was on duty tonight_. She got out of bed and padded over to the door in her long nightgown, not bothering to put anything else on as she intended on letting him in anyway.

Jaime was indeed there, but was stood, looking mutinous, beside the hulking form of Robert Baratheon.

The king was clearly drunk, swaying where he stood and eyeing her with bleary eyes. Jaime was clearly angry. Ross was immediately assaulted with memories of the last time a king had visited her in these rooms, those times more than fresh in her mind. It had only been a few months, but suddenly she was back to when Aerys was still alive, feeling that dread, that hate, those long nails raking down her skin -

"M-my lady," Robert slurred, stumbling forward slightly. She didn't move a muscle, frozen, even as he grabbed her narrow shoulder for support.

"Your Grace," Jaime's tone cut like a knife, not missing the look on her face. He remembered, too. How could he not. "It's too late to disturb Lady Stark. Surely it would be best for everyone if you returned to - "

"F-fuck off, King-slayer," Robert waved a bleary hand in his direction in irritation. "'M the king, I'll do whatever the b-bloody hells I want to," Ross got a hold of herself at that point, remembering it wasn't the raving madman who still haunted her dreams that stood before her, but her brother's friend, who angered quickly but forgot just as easily, who never burned her father and brother alive. Robert was still going on.

"Aerys Targaryen liked to say much the same thing," Ross said sharply. "Those were the same notions that set five of the seven kingdoms against him, the same notions that got him killed," Robert fell abruptly silent at that, seeming to rile in anger and deflate in horror in the same second. Jaime had looked at her in surprise, which annoyed her - no doubt he was used to her lying back and letting kings walk all over her - and thus let Robert continue.

"I just... wanted to ask you," The king mumbled. "L-lyanna. She's - she's - "

"Dead," Ross said bluntly. Robert's face crumpled. It would've been comical in another situation, to see the mighty warrior reduced to a drunken wreck with the emotional control of a child.

"Yes," He pressed on. "Lyanna - I want t'marry L-lyanna. I don't want a... 'nother woman," Ross saw Jaime rolling his eyes, and was about to ask what exactly that had to do with her, but the king continued. "T'win Lann'ster wants me t-to take his daughter," She saw Jaime's smile fix in place. "I don't - I don't want his daughter. I want - Lyanna," _Bloody hells_.

"I'm grieving too," Ross humoured him slightly, in the hope he'd leave. "As is Ned. She was my sister - "

"Yes!" Robert seized on that. "Yes. Th-that's why... I'm here. You-re her s-sister," She frowned.

"What does - " She broke off, eyes widening in horror, completely caught off-guard by what she realised he was trying to say. "Do you seriously mean..?" Jaime's mouth had dropped open for a second as he too caught on, before he quickly recovered himself.

"M-marry me, Ross," Robert said, eyes barely focusing on her as he tried to take her hand. She stepped smartly back. "Marry me, be queen. Y-you look like her... a little. I s-saw Ned's letter from that mad b-bastard... I - I made him show me, he was... in such a t-temper. I know what the Mad K-king did to you. But I'd m-make... make you... a queen," Her eyes narrowed in anger, but she doubted he'd meant to insult her. In many ways, he was right. She would be unlikely to find a husband who'd take her with Ren alone, and even then only because she was a Stark and the existence of her bastard had been kept quiet so far. If every kingdom knew she had been defiled by none other than Aerys Targaryen, that would be nearly impossible.

But she didn't care. She didn't want a husband, who would send her son away. She didn't want Robert, either. She didn't want to be queen, and she especially did not want to remain in this city a moment longer than she had to.

"You're drunk," She said instead, tone icy cold. "And grieving. You already have a northern alliance. You need Tywin Lannister more than you need a wife who shares the name of your former betrothed. Marry his daughter, or any other girl, and we'll forget this ever happened," He looked ready to argue, but shut his mouth; even in his drunken state, he couldn't take the look she gave him for anything less than a dismissal.

"F-fine," He grumbled. "You... look at me like Ned does, any-anyway. Couldn't f-fuck a girl who looks... looks like Ned," Jaime snorted quietly behind him, and Robert shot him an unfocused glare. Ross bit her lip.

"Back to bed, your Grace?" The knight raised an eyebrow.

"F-fuck off," Robert mumbled, but was already turning to go, stumbling down the hallway. Jaime lingered to give her a laden look, before following the king like any dutiful babysitter would, although that could only be an improvement from a year ago. _He had to watch the last one burn people alive_.

It was after he left, when she had firmly closed the door to her chambers and sat down heavily on the bed, that she realised what exactly that predicament had meant for Jaime. He did not want his sister to marry Robert, she knew that much. No matter if he didn't say it, she could read it in his expression easily, and she could tell that he would rather Cersei Lannister was married to him than the king. And Ross had just had the opportunity to possibly prevent that marriage. She sighed, closing her eyes briefly in frustration. One problem solved just brought up two more.

Even if she had accepted the king's insane, drunken proposal, there was always the very likely chance that Robert would take back everything he offered her the next morning. But of course, there was no chance of her accepting, for a practically infinite number of reasons. She had no desire to be queen. She had no desire to bed Robert; even if she had, she wouldn't want to sleep with a man who would call her by her sister's name with every thrust, and spend the rest of her life being compared to Lyanna. The thought of remaining in the south, in this castle, for the rest of her life, made her want to throw herself off the walls of Maegor's Holdfast. If Robert chose a Stark over Tywin Lannister's daughter, he made a powerful enemy with enough influence to perhaps even restore Viserys Targaryen to the throne. House Targaryen had cost her half her family; her father, her brother, her sister. It had cost her her maidenhood, and any trace of innocence she had left. It had stripped her of her dignity, left her weak and powerless, left her body scarred and her mind haunted with horrors that appeared whenever she let herself finally drift into a fitful sleep.

Ross would die before another Targaryen sat the Iron Throne.


	6. Dark Water

Ross couldn't sleep.

_They had arrived at Winterfell three moons ago. She rejoiced to be back in the North, her home. Loved the feeling of the biting wind on her face as they rode across wild moorland. Lived for the essence of the ancient forests, dark with thousands of years of undisturbed growth. She had almost cried when she first caught sight of the grim grey walls of Winterfell, and suspected she wasn't alone. Ned and his army hadn't seen home in almost as long as she had been away; they had been fighting a war for the best part of two years, after all._

She rose from her bed, the stone floor freezing cold against her feet; though the hot springs warmed the walls, she could never sleep well without the window open, and a chilly night breeze was blowing through her chambers. Cold, but clean, unlike the lukewarm stench of shit and despair that seemed to permeate every room in King's Landing.

_Home hadn't been the same, though. Father was dead. Brandon was dead. Lyanna was dead. Ross had found the bones of her brother and a jar containing the ashes of Lord Rickard a day or so before they left King's Landing. Abandoned in a dark cellar. She was amazed Aerys hadn't thrown them into the sea - she had only found the room after the snivelling eunuch, Varys, presumably hoping to gain favour with the new king, had led her there. Her father's blackened armour had been carelessly thrown inside, whilst Brandon's body had just been dumped and left to rot; his skeleton still wore the rags he'd been imprisoned in. The Tyroshi strangulation device had been left around his neck, like an even grislier noose, and she hadn't hesitated before cutting it off with her dagger and flinging it viciously into a dark corner_.

The wind caught the edges of her long nightgown as Ross padded towards the window. Hanging over the dressing screen was her wedding dress, modest, elegant and pale grey. It had been left there after the final fitting earlier that day. She was getting married in the morning. Even if it was a beautiful dress, she hated it regardless.

_Ned had ordered statues made for Father, Brandon and Lyanna. Ross had overseen that herself, making sure the stonemason got every inch of their faces right. She had been harsh and overbearing, she knew, but she couldn't let their true likenesses be forgotten now they were dead and buried, sealed in the crypts in the icy tombs. Her siblings had been larger than life, never staying still for more than a minute. It was strange to see them in statue form, no matter how much they looked like them, something wasn't right_. _They had got her father perfect though, stern, imposing and strong_.

It was dark outside, made even darker by the overcast sky. Rain fell from thick clouds - so thick they blotted out the moon and the stars - heavy droplets splashing inside onto the windowsill, wetting the drapes. Ross rested her hands on the ledge, and soon her wrists were soaked, bony fingers white against the stone.

_Benjen had changed. She remembered a laughing, happy boy of eleven, not as wild as Brandon and not as solemn as Ned. Good-natured and friendly, longing to be like his elder siblings. She came back to a boy of fourteen who had been the Stark in Winterfell as the body of his eldest brother rotted under the Red Keep, his sisters were raped by Targaryens and his other brother risked his life daily fighting to get them back. Benjen now frowned more like Ned, and though he still laughed at jokes, he was far more cynical than he had been before_. _The first night after they returned, Ross had heard a noise outside her door. She had grabbed her dagger and gone to investigate, only to find her younger brother stood there, clearly unsure of whether or not he should enter. She didn't give him a choice; Benjen was white and shaking, and to his embarrassment broke down in great heaving sobs when she put an arm around him, clinging to her like a child. Ross didn't begrudge him that - there were silent tears running down her own face, though she didn't think Benjen saw - and neither of them mentioned it the next day. Her little brother would be shamed if Ned knew. Not that Ned would judge him for it, but Ross understood. _

She stepped back from the window, letting her hand slip under her pillow and draw out the blade. The dagger was long for a knife, plain, but of high quality, sharp and lethal. Jaime had taught her a little of how to use it, back in King's Landing. She liked the feel of it in her hand, even more so after she learned how to kill a man. It was comforting, to know she could somewhat protect herself a little, even if she wouldn't be much use in a real fight.

_Ross herself had been quiet before the rebellion, always a reserved and naturally wary child, but now she was outright mistrustful of most things. It hadn't been obvious in the Red Keep because she was bound to be miserable there, but here, back home, it suddenly came into sharp focus. She rarely smiled, or showed much expression at all really; at times, she might as well have been replaced by a statue, like her dead brother and sister. She was harsher now, colder, harder. She tried to hide how she flinched from physical contact from anyone who wasn't Ned or Benjen. She often woke up with a gasp in the middle of the night, her eyes wild and her nightgown clinging to her, drenched with sweat, as flashes of mad purple eyes, scratching long nails and licking green flames of wildfire danced through her mind. There was no hiding her sleepwalking. Many times the Winterfell guards had told her they had had to escort her back to her rooms at night after finding her wandering the corridors. It was eerie, Jory Cassel had told her. Many of the men thought she was a ghostly spectre the first time they'd seen her doing it, a lone grey lady walking the halls in her nightdress, with blank, glassy eyes and dark hair streaming down her back. More recently, she had been getting flashbacks during the day. A glint of green cloth, the same acidic shade as wildfire, had made her drop what she was holding and freeze in the middle of the courtyard, images of Father and countless others going up in flames flashing before her eyes. It was odd, because she had had none of that nonsense in King's Landing itself. She had thought that being far away could only help matters, but it hadn't, not really. The memories were still there, and apparently wouldn't leave her alone._

She ran a long finger over the blade. A small bead of blood bloomed on the tip, and the sting woke her up more than the cold breeze had. She remembered the conversation earlier today, remembered the exact look in Roose Bolton's unnaturally pale eyes as he told her that her bastard son would be remaining in Winterfell. She would be permitted to see him on visits, but he would never set foot in the Dreadfort, and would certainly never take the name Bolton like his mother. Good. Renan was not a Bolton. He was a Snow, but Stark blood ran in his veins, as strong as Ned's two boys. Her son looked more Stark than Robb; though Ned's heir shared the grey eyes of his father, he seemed to take after Catelyn more in the face and with his red-brown hair, only a shade or so darker than his mother's. Jon Snow looked more Stark than either of them, the spitting image of Ned; her brother had not yet revealed to her who the boy's mother was, and honestly Ross couldn't bring herself to care much. He was Ned's son, that's all that mattered. She didn't think much on it, she'd rather her brother simply didn't tell her than lie. Not that Ned ever would, not to her. If he didn't want anyone to know, then so be it.

She couldn't decide if Ren looked more like her or his father. His hair was dark, and his nose and chin looked to grow as sharp as her own, but his face was certainly not as long as hers, and his cheekbones were too high even at barely more than an infant. He'd be a handsome boy for sure, especially with those green eyes she often lost herself in. She couldn't leave him, couldn't not watch her son grow into a man whilst she resided as Lady Bolton in the Dreadfort.

She had been promised to Roose Bolton since she was four-and-ten. Before the man had arrived in Winterfell a week ago for the wedding - accompanied by Domeric, his four year old son by his previous wife Bethany Ryswell - she had only spoken to him once before, when her father brought her to the Dreadfort to meet her betrothed several months before they all left for the tourney at Harrenhal. It was important for Starks to marry into the North, he had said. What was unsaid was that the handsome Brandon and beautiful Lyanna were getting spouses from great southron houses to fuel Father's ambitions, whilst the plainer Ned and Ross were being quietly married off to House Bolton of the Dreadfort and some Northern girl to appease the bannermen. At the time, Ross hadn't complained. She knew her duty, and it would suit her well being married into the second most powerful house in the North. Lord Bolton was cold, but was no fool, and she thought that would be enough. She didn't particularly care much about liking her husband; she had never truly thought of it. It had been Lyanna who dreamed of romance and adventure. Ross had indulged her sister, but never let herself believe it. Now, though...

But she couldn't let herself think like that. He was in the south, she was in the north. He had his sister, she had her soon-to-be husband. _And she had their son_. Ren should know his father. But he never would. Ross felt angry with herself at the grief she felt that she would most likely never see Jaime Lannister again. He was just a man, for gods' sake. A stupid, golden, pretty, southron knight. Who had made her smile when she thought she could never smile again, who had held her at night despite the scars and bruises marring her skin, who had made feel like her heart was made of something more than ice and stone.

Her betrothal had not been broken even after she came back ruined by Aerys Targaryen (though few knew of that specific fact, they knew she had a bastard nonetheless). Roose Bolton was not likely to refuse his chance to get himself a Stark wife over such a matter. But for the first time, Ross truly did not want to marry, rather than just being apathetic to the idea. In King's Landing the idea had seemed so far off as to be irrelevant, but now it galled her. She could barely stand the embrace of her brothers without cringing away, and tensed even when one of the old stablehands she had known since she was a child clapped her on the back as she dismounted a courser. The thought of the coming wedding night - and all the nights to come that Bolton would surely claim as his marriage rights - caused a nasty sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and an irrational desire to steal the fastest horse in the stables and ride to the end of the world.

But despite all that, she would have done it. She would have married Bolton, even if she was screaming inside, for Ned's sake, for her house's sake, for the memory of her dead father. But that was before. Ren was the only thing holding her together, if he was gone she was sure she'd finally crack.

Ross hadn't slept at all that night. It was the hour of the wolf, but she had merely stood at the window in her nightdress for hours, staring sightlessly out at the black night. She had thought to get some sleep, but merely lay on her side staring at the wall, Bolton's words churning about her head, until she got up again. There she stood now. _He will never set foot in the Dreadfort. You may see him only on visits. It is a high insult for Lady Bolton to raise a child who is not her husband's in his own hall_. The dagger caught the moonlight on its polished edge, glinting coldly.

The realisation was rather easy, once she'd come to it. Ross couldn't leave her son. Nor could she be a doll for a man to do whatever he wanted. Not again. The Targaryens were all dead or fled - she smiled vaguely, as she always did at the memory of Aerys' blood on a golden sword - but she was still not free. She had sworn to herself as she rode out of King's Landing beside her brother, Ren held tightly in her lap, that she would never be that weak again.

And that she would never leave her son. She had sworn that before, too.

Ross was as silent as a ghost as she slipped out of her chambers, keeping to the shadows. Her bare feet made no sounds as she traversed the familiar halls, knowing all the nooks and hidey-holes to duck into whenever any guards came in sight, strangely numb to the idea of being caught, numb to what she was doing. It was stupid, reckless, futile, but she just didn't care. She knew which room Bolton was staying in. It just so happened that that particular guest chamber had a hidden entrance, which she'd found as a child with Lya. It meant bypassing the guards on the main door, and she used that entrance now, slipping unheard into the rooms from behind a tapestry.

There. He lay flat on his back in the bed, motionless, no sound other than his quiet breathing and her own, slightly ragged. She tilted her head as she drew closer. Strange. It was somehow unnatural, seeing him like this. He didn't look very peaceful even now, thin lips frowning even as he slept.

She felt a draught from somewhere, wafting at her ankles and making the hairs on her neck stand on end, a whisper of the night breeze from her rooms. It sent a shot of energy up her spine, electrifying, and in that moment she had never felt more alive in her body, yet so completely empty in her head. Outside, she heard the sounds of rain start to drum on the windowpane, oddly muffled. She stared at her betrothed, feeling neither hatred, anger or sadness. Merely practicality. She knew how to kill a man, Jaime had made sure of that.

The dagger plunged down, right towards his heart. At the last fraction of a second, Roose Bolton's pale eyes snapped open, catching her very nearly red-handed. Before she could even blink, a knife of his own was pressed to her side.

"Lady Stark," He said, ever-soft voice sounding as loud as a battle commander's roar to her ears in the dead silence. For several moments, she forgot how to breathe, but then she remembered that her dagger was at his chest, he couldn't move without her killing him too. He was clever enough to know that. There was a long pause. She was too shocked to speak, her words dying in her throat, though her hands didn't shake. He eventually broke the silence. "I have a preference for keeping incidents like this... quiet. I'm sure you feel the same," Milky-grey eyes stared deep into her own, making her feel for the first time in a while the young woman of eighteen she was. He was only ten or so years older, but somehow the dry, almost casual tone he used made her feel like a chastised child. _No_, she corrected herself. _He's too still, as still as I am. He doesn't know me. Doesn't know if I'll listen to reason, or if I'm just a mad, damaged woman beyond all that. For all he knows, I could just kill him and not care about the consequences. _Bolton was tense too, though he hid it well. For a moment, she considered if she was indeed mad and damaged and didn't care about the consequences, or if she was reasonable. In the end, she went with the latter.

She nodded a fraction, and they both lowered their weapons, very slowly, Ross against her better judgement, as he would surely be able to overpower her in a fair fight. And he had two of his men stood outside the door -

It happened too fast. A shuffling noise behind her, and she had whirled around in an instant without thinking, her dagger sinking deeply into flesh, slicing the throat of the guardsman that had just entered and tried to sneak up on her from behind. The man choked and spluttered, falling against her, nails tearing at her arms as he let out a strangled gargle. Ross stood there stunned, eyes wide, then stepped back, letting the still choking man fall to the floor with a muffled thud. There was more blood than she thought there would be. A lot more. She hadn't realised until she felt the warm, wet liquid trickling down her hands and wrists, spreading down her white sleeves and onto her skirts.

It was as though the nasty feeling brought her out of a daze she hadn't even realised she was in. _I've killed a man. _She suddenly heard the loud drumming of the rain outside again - had it been that loud before? - and looked down, seeing more blood dribble from the guardsman's slack mouth as he gasped his final throes, one hand stretching out to claw at her ankle. She let go of the dagger, bringing both hands up to her mouth by instinct as it clattered to the floor. She stopped before they touched her face, but it was too late. Blood had already dripped down onto her bodice - had already _sprayed_, from the force she had cut the guard's throat - staining the cloth further. It didn't appear red in this light, but the dark stain was unmistakable.

He died rather easy, some part of her noted dully as the corpse fell silent. It was like Aerys. The blade went in, the man died, and somehow it didn't feel like enough. Though Aerys was lucky it was Jaime who got to him first; Ross wouldn't have made it nearly as quick as a sword through the throat. But killing the man who haunted her nightmares was different to killing someone she didn't know. At least she knew Aerys deserved it.

She didn't know what to do with her hands, holding them in front of her, scared to touch anything. Roose Bolton stood behind her, a pale shadow, face expressionless, hand raised to stop the other guard approaching. He picked the dagger off the floor in one smooth movement, his short, strong fingers turning it over in his hands.

"Who taught you to kill, Lady Stark?" His tone gave little away. He could easily kill her with her own blade, she noted.

"I learned in King's Landing," Her own voice sounded distant to her ears, forcing her to shake her head and pay attention. She looked hard at Bolton. "You were going to take me from my son,"

"I thought that would be it," He gave a small, tight smile. "That, or too much time spent in Mad Aerys' company," Ross' jaw set at the mention of the former king.

"I'm not mad," She said tightly, the blood dripping off her hands contradicting her every word. "Just practical," Bolton actually laughed at that, albeit in his usual soft manner.

"I believe you," He sounded surprised at himself. "Go," She blinked. "You heard me. You can keep your bastard boy after the wedding, just keep him out of my sight,"

"You're lying," She said simply. Whilst his face was impassive, his tone even, the look in his eyes scared her. "You'll have me killed for this the moment I'm alone. Or you'll wait until I've given you a son, then off me some time after. I'm not simple, whether you think me mad or not. The north remembers, and any Bolton would die before he forgave a Stark anything,"

"You underestimate the value of a Stark bride," Bolton said with a half-shrug. "What use are you to me in the crypts next to your sister? In a few hours, you shall become my wife, so obey me now when I tell you to leave this room. In return... That guard deserted some time in the early morning. You were in your rooms all night, anxious for your upcoming wedding. I heard nothing, saw nothing. This never happened," He raised an eyebrow at the second guard, who nodded slightly without hesitation. Bolton still held onto her dagger. "Now, I won't ask again. Leave,"

Ross left, after a glance at her knife, then down at the slowly spreading pool of blood from the prone body of the guardsman. She only remembered brief flashes of the journey back to her rooms, though she had the sense to wrap her bloody hands in the folds of her nightdress so as not to leave a trail - the folds of fabric were clutched in her white-knuckled right hand like a lifeline. Her door was shut with a click, but she remained with her back against it, slowly sinking down to the floor as the facade of composure she had kept in front of Bolton came crumbling down. She sat slumped against the door, and let out a small, strangled moan, clutching both hands to her mouth to silence her. She felt the blood, sticky now as it began to dry. She retched as the iron taste suddenly filled her mouth, spitting into her sleeve. She'd killed a man in front of her husband to be - a Bolton for gods sakes - who she had attempted to slaughter in his sleep._ I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead_. He would either tell the whole of the north by tomorrow and Ned would be forced to execute her; or he would get a catspaw to kill her on his behalf, sooner or later. But no, it was worse than that, she realised suddenly. He was telling the truth when he had said he wouldn't do either of those things, because now he had complete control over her with that incriminating piece of blackmail. He wouldn't kill her, not with the opportunities that would bring.

And she had killed a man.

Ross moved over to the washbasin as though in a daze, searching her mind for any guilt, regret, horror at her actions. She found nothing. She felt nothing. She was scrubbing a man's blood off her hands, so much it turned the water a murky red, and she simply didn't care. That realisation was the worst of it all.

The sun was starting to rise, pale light filtering through the open window. Slowly, she set down the cloth, as red as the water in the basin, and let out a long shuddering breath, looking at her reflection in the mirror. The white material of her nightdress was ruined, stained with huge patches of dried blood. She quickly undressed, bundling up the dress and shoving it under the loose floorboard she had used since she was a child to hide things from others. The rag followed it, and the red water was tipped down the privy. She changed into another nightdress and made sure that no trace of blood remained on her face. Her wrists were scratched, she idly noticed, and bruised, from where the guardsman had used the last of his strength to claw at his killer. She pulled down her sleeves then set about with her hair. It didn't take too long to comb through - it had always been poker straight, unlike Lyanna's wild curls - and she mussed it up with a hand before settling into bed. It was all methodical, practiced, and that made her calm slightly.

Rosennis Stark became Lady Bolton in name under the heart tree at Winterfell the next morning. No one asked why her hands looked like she'd been in a tavern brawl - perhaps they didn't notice, her sleeves almost covered them anyway - although her now-husband gave her a glance that said everything as their wrists were bound together. She didn't flinch from his pale stare, returning it with a stony one of her own. 'Well-suited', was what she heard several guests muttering amongst each other about them as they made their way back to the main castle. The quiet, unnerving lord of the Dreadfort and the cold, hard lady of Winterfell. At least she still had her reputation; if people still thought that of her, then maybe that's what she could be. Better cold and hard than weak and broken.

She wore black to her wedding feast. Bolton colours, she claimed, though there was not a hint of pink on her. It was a rather washed-out colour, she had always thought, a faded red. But though her skirts and cloak were black, her bodice and underskirts were Stark grey, and she wore a silver direwolf on a chain around her neck. The most colourful thing on her was sewn into the folds of her skirts around her waistline. An embroidered flower - so small that it was near unnoticeable unless you knew it was there - in a rich shade of blue, the colour of winter roses.


	7. As The River Runs

The Dreadfort had always been a rather imposing castle, especially for a Stark. Often when her husband looked at her, all Ross could think of was that the Boltons had a special room to hang the skins of their enemies, some of those belonging her ancestors, several Kings of Winter who had been dragged beneath the castle, only their bones coming back out. The Dreadfort consisted of thick, high outer walls, built of dark stone and dotted with triangular merlons, that looked like pointed stone teeth biting at the sky. Inside the walls, a great keep, smaller but taller than Winterfell's, rose up, along with several massive towers strategically placed. Every wall she saw was sheer steep, no chance of anyone scaling them. No_ wonder Harlon Stark laid siege for two years, rather than take this place by storm_.

The Weeping Water ran to the west of the castle, cutting its course southeast in an icy torrent, swift and dangerous despite its frozen banks. A few tress grew nearby, although there was a forest in the distance, along with a series of hills. Directly surrounding the Dreadfort, however, was a broad, largely flat plain. _Any approaching enemies would be seen from miles away_, she thought, feeling a chill northern wind blow across her face. The sky at the moment was overcast, promising more snow. Strangely enough, seeing the grim castle in this grim weather did not make her any more uneasy. If anything, it was the opposite. _Even a dragon might have trouble breaking this_.

Her chambers as Lady Bolton were bigger than her childhood rooms at Winterfell, large and spacious. They were in the great keep, high up and facing west, away from most of the castle, so she could see well over the walls and far into the distance with little else in the way. Surprisingly, the windows were large and arched, paned with glass; she had expected a dim little room with little natural light, but got quite the opposite. The drapes at the windows and around her bed were black, red and pink, Bolton colours, though thankfully no flayed men made any appearance, sigil or otherwise. The fireplace was large, with a great grey direwolf skin rug in front of it, and she had to smile at that. She wondered where they kept the two-legged wolfskins.

In truth, married life was not the horror she'd imagined. Her husband clearly wanted to strike a balance between intimidating her into not daring to pull a knife on him again, and earning her begrudging loyalty so she wouldn't do it anyway out of spite. He was hardly a loving man, but she was decidedly not a loving woman, and wouldn't have wanted anything else. He gifted her a new horse on their arrival, as well with promises of a fitting for a new wardrobe - all the clothes she had left in Winterfell came from before the rebellion, when she was skinny and fifteen, rather than the slightly less skinny, slightly taller eighteen year old she was now. Best of all, though, was that her son had his own room, a tiny sleeping cell near the servant's quarters, well out the way, but a room nonetheless.

The largest complaint by far was the fact that the old Lady Bolton still resided in the castle. Not her husband's former wife, but rather his mother. Lady Margaret was an old hag of at least sixty years, with a pointed, pinched face and beady eyes the same colour as her son's, and had been a Bolton cousin before marriage. That explained a great deal. With eyes too dim to read a page, the woman insisted on being a part of running the household - apparently she hadn't bothered for decades until Ross arrived - constantly sniping, tutting and cackling at her own jokes, which were usually at Ross' expense. Anything that came out of the woman's shrivelled lips was rewarded with a stony stare from Ross, which the old shrew only cackled at more. Never had Ross wanted to punch an old lady more. Fortunately, her husband seemed to dislike his mother as much as she did. It wasn't noticeable, but Ross saw the way his eyes narrowed a fraction whenever she spoke, and how his jaw tightened whenever the woman started griping at him, usually about 'that Stark bitch'. At least Margaret had the honesty to say it to her face.

With the help of the steward, a shrewd but witty man in his fifties named Evan, Ross found ways to avoid her goodmother when dealing with the accounts, and together they managed fine. Those duties were second nature to her, having been doing them at Winterfell since she was a child, and slowly she began to turn things in the castle to more her taste.

Her husband wasn't bad company, in truth. That he was a cruel, cunning man she was under no doubt, but he had another side which he often indulged in private, not hating her company and finding her blunt manner somewhat amusing, particularly when dealing with members of his household who wouldn't take orders from her, as well as his own mother. He was not a fool, which was both a blessing and a curse. She didn't have to love him, nor him her, they just had to tolerate each other. Nonetheless, it was relief when three months into the marriage she found herself pregnant and he no longer visited her bed; he wasn't like Aerys, but he wasn't Jaime either. He wasn't violent, but he was cold, clearly doing it out of duty. He preferred sleeping with various whores, serving girls and mistresses than with her, whilst she preferred to be left alone.

Nearly a year after her wedding, she gave birth to twins. Edrick came first, then Aileen, both healthy, with the raven black hair of the Boltons rather than the Stark's dark brown, and grey-blue eyes that grew more pale each day. Both were fussy, noisy babies, but she loved them both nonetheless. Her husband's only son by his previous wife - Domeric, a boy of six, who was a rare case of Ross liking a child that wasn't her own - had been fascinated by the babies, his half-siblings. Ren, who was almost three years old, had been rather wary of them but was slowly warming up to the idea of being an older brother, albeit a bastard, which Lady Margaret went out of her way to remind him he was. Ross' goodmother, upon being shown the babies, had sniffed and said that at least they looked like their father, and hopefully Aileen wouldn't turn into a whore like her mother. Ross had been tempted to give the old shrew a good kick, but she still felt the pain from the birth and didn't want to worsen it on account of that woman.

During the fifteen or so months that had passed since she left Winterfell, she had been back to visit several times. It was nice to see her remaining family, even if she had to put up with Catelyn. The Tully woman irritated Ross, particularly with her cold manner where it came to Ned, who deserved better after all he had gone through to ensure the family's safety. Her brother had given his southron wife the warmest rooms in the castle, doted on their son and even built her a _sept_ for gods sake, and though Catelyn was forever ladylike and proper in public, she was rather cold and formal in private too. The way she treated Ned's bastard Jon annoyed Ross greatly. The boy would never be a Stark - and would never be any threat to her own children's inheritance even if he was legitimised, because Robb was older than him - yet she still actively despised him, a baby. Ross had once pointed out to the woman that if Jon was treated with love, as part of the family, he would never rise up against his siblings, whereas if he was ostracised his whole life he may indeed grow up bitter, ambitious and everything she'd ever feared. Catelyn hadn't taken well to that, and they had been cold with each other ever since, which suited Ross just fine.

Her husband wasn't best pleased by her frequent visits to Winterfell, and nor was he pleased that she brought Ren with her whether she was at Winterfell or the Dreadfort - she wasn't a mother who babied her son, far from it, she just didn't trust Roose Bolton enough to leave her bastard alone with him - but he said little on it. He had his heir, spare and broodmare already, after all, what more could he want?

Now, however, six moons after the birth of her twins, she found herself riding south. It was strange, coming this way again after all this time. The last time, Ross had been with Lyanna and Brandon, riding to meet Ned and Robert Baratheon before continuing on to the fateful tourney Harrenhal. That was over five years ago, and now only Ned rode with her. She had been a girl of fifteen then, worldly in many ways but ignorant in many others. Now she was a grown woman of twenty, married, a mother three times over.

It felt wrong, leaving the North. Not only were her twins remaining behind at the Dreadfort - of course they were, they were far to young to travel at the end of winter - but a feeling of dread had stuck with her the closer they got to the Riverlands. Starks did not fair well in the south, it hardly needed to be proven to her any more than it had been already. Brandon had died, Lyanna had died, Father had died. Her brother felt similarly too, she knew, though neither of them voiced their feelings; they didn't have to, they understood each other well enough. But one did not disobey a direct order from the king, and Robert Baratheon had insisted that the Starks south to Riverrun for a tourney held by Hoster Tully to celebrate Prince Joffrey's first nameday, claiming to want to 'see Ned's frozen face' again. Ross had brought Ren with her, though Ned's children had stayed with in Winterfell - Robb and Jon Snow weren't even three years old - and so had Catelyn, to Ross' relief, pregnant with her second child.

The Starks rode into the castle to be greeted by a welcoming party of not only Lord Hoster and his young heir Edmure, but also King Robert Baratheon, as strong and muscled as he had been when he had ridden victorious into King's Landing. Robert had roared in delight and embraced Ned like a brother, and Ross as well, much to her surprise and unease, not having forgotten the drunken incident the night Ned brought Lyanna's bones to the Red Keep. Robert's queen stood beside him. This was the first time Ross had ever seen Cersei Lannister, and the woman was even more beautiful than they said. Her smile was lovely, her eyes sharp. She looked radiant in a dress of sea-green silk trimmed with gold, and so much like Jaime that it hurt. Ross - dressed in her dark travelling clothes, with her unremarkable face and skinny frame - could fully appreciate now how poor a replacement she had been.

And there he was. Stood with the other members of the Kingsguard, in his white cloak and armour, looking the same as he had done the last time she'd seen him. Their goodbye after the rebellion had been rather hollow and forced, rushed too, as Ned was watching. Jaime had seemed saddened then, but only because she was taking Ren with her, she thought; he had been more attached to their son than Ross had expected any man to be to their bastard before she's seen her brother's. Perhaps he had been a little sad to see her go too, but she didn't even begin to contemplate that there was anything more to that than saying goodbye to a friend you had gone through hell with and seen practically every day for almost three years. She told herself that was what she was feeling too, though she knew it was more than that. What could she do, though? His father would never have let him marry the Whore of Winterfell (as she had heard several people mutter after learning about Ren, her goodmother amongst them), and Ned would never have agreed to a match with the Kingslayer. He was sworn to the Kingsguard, besides, and she'd had a betrothal to honour. Most importantly, he couldn't wait to get back to his beloved sister, whilst Ross had just wanted to go home.

Those more than legitimate reasons seemed weak now she was faced with him again and he smiled at her, that same smile as before, and it was like she was a girl of fifteen once more, staring flatly and unimpressed at this dazzling golden knight who laughed at her for being grim-faced and blunt. She turned away abruptly to help her son down from their horse - only to find Ren had already slid down without her help, looking around at everything with his usual curious suspicion - and felt Jaime's eyes on them both the whole time.

The feast that night was surprisingly... bearable. Ross had never particularly enjoyed feasts. Robert was as she remembered - loud, brash and the centre of any room - but that night she found him rather amusing company. Perhaps it was because of the wine she'd drunk. As before, he seemed to like her well enough too, but not in the same way that he liked most women; she wasn't especially beautiful, she was Ned's sister (who sat between them) and she was married, and though one, or even two, of those factors may not have been enough to deter him, all of them together were. She was glad. He spoke with her now like he spoke with Ned, like a friend, roaring with laughter at the stories she could tell of her brother and not bothering to patronise her, which was nice.

Queen Cersei was a different matter. Whilst Ned and Robert began to talk alone, of battles and other such things, the woman turned to Ross with a slight sneer on her face. It was clear the woman disdained everyone who didn't bear the name Lannister (and even some who did, if the rumours of her hatred of her younger brother and sister were true). With no one else to talk to, it seemed like she would turn to Ross, littering the conversation with insults veiled with charming smiles and false courtesy. The queen had something against her from that start - perhaps something to do with her sister being Robert's former betrothed, or maybe Jaime had even told her about Robert's drunken proposal - yet the feeling was mutual; this woman had, after all, slept with the father of Ross' child.

Yet Ross' surprise - and she suspected Cersei's too - they both started to become more involved in their conversation after Ross mentioned her reluctance to return to her husband. Cersei had smiled nastily, sharing her own woes about Robert - of which there were many - and Ross had actually been able to understand. Though she liked Robert well enough, she could not deny that he treated his wife badly (not that she could imagine Cersei treating him much better; how many times had this woman slept with Jaime after swearing before the gods to love no other but him?). The difference between her and the queen was that Ross did not care whether her husband laid with other women or not (unlike Cersei, who was glaring daggers at the serving wench the King currently had on his lap). Ross was under no delusions that Cersei Lannister was a good person, but she herself had attempted to murder her betrothed the night before their wedding, so she was hardly one to judge. She would not kid herself that this made them friends. The queen might be being relatively civil to Ross now, but that was most likely as she deemed her no threat, and she was not as vapid as the other ladies here tonight. And she wanted to badmouth her husband to anyone who would listen.

"I hated you, you know," Cersei said idly, after she had drunk rather a lot of wine. Ross raised an eyebrow. Jaime must have told her about Robert. "Your dear dead sister still holds Robert's heart. I'll never be good enough compared to darling Lyanna,"

"You're not the only one," Ross had replied without thinking, and Cersei actually laughed. Ross hadn't meant that, not really. She didn't regret her words often, but she regretted saying that to get a laugh out of the queen. She wasn't made for southron flattery and lies, she knew that already.

What was most interesting about the whole conversation with Cersei, however, was her reaction to any mention of Jaime, no matter how small. Ross hadn't been able to refrain from throwing in several innocuous remarks about him, and to her surprise Cersei scowled whenever his name came up, and when speaking of him she practically sneered the words 'my brother' with the same dislike as when she spoke of Tyrion and Giana. Odd, Jaime had only ever given the impression that they were entirely too close. Had something happened? Ross tried not to get her hopes up.

Walking to her chambers that night through the deserted hall of Riverrun - she had left the feast earlier than most people, to check on Ren, who was fine - she stopped dead as a figure stepped out of the shadows with usual catlike grace. She knew it was him before he spoke.

"I spoke with your sister," Ross said when he said nothing. "Better company than I expected, although she doesn't seem very happy with you,"

"I saw," Jaime said, chuckling slightly. "She's not so fond of me anymore. Cersei never liked being refused," Ross frowned, suspicious.

"What do you mean?"

"You left," He said, stepping closer. "And I was overjoyed to see her again. To sleep with her again," Closer. "I was furious when she married Robert, even if she came to my bed more often than his. But then I started to see her, truly see her, for the first time. I started to remember you," He was so close now she could reach out and touch him. She didn't. "I started comparing her to you. And soon... I couldn't stand to touch her," Her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to speak, but no noise came out. Surely this was a jape, or she was dreaming, or this was some kind of mistake or misunderstanding, because this could not mean - _he _could not mean -

He kissed her and for once she stopped thinking, stopped worrying, just melted into him like she had done so many times before.

The door to her chambers had barely been pushed to before he had grabbed her and pulled her forcefully against him. He tried to kiss her again, but she held back for a moment.

"What?" He snapped impatiently, eyes dark as he looked down at her. She was silent for a long moment, running her eyes over him as he held her, taking in every inch of his handsome face, his mane of golden curls, his sharp jaw, his familiar smell, how his strong, calloused hands on her arms felt. "Ross,"

"I want to know what I'm doing," She murmured, meeting his eyes with her own, unable to stop the rare grin spreading across her face. Somewhere in her head she was screaming, so happy she could burst, unable to believe this was truly happening. "So I can remember exactly how good it felt to break my vows to my husband next time I have to face him," _He'd kill me if he found out I'd been unfaithful, stupid... best make sure he never does_. Jaime laughed then, as irreverent and mocking as ever. He wasn't changed much, not really. She wasn't either. They had both gained new, unwanted titles - Kingslayer and Lady Bolton - but he was just as arrogant as before, she was just as prickly, he was as infuriating, she was as blunt, he was as radiant, she was as cold. The thought came to her again - _why me, of his choice of everyone?_ \- but she brushed it aside. She suddenly found she no longer cared.

He was about to say something, but she cut him off then, pressing their lips together. She had to stand on her tiptoes; she'd forgotten, Jaime was taller than her husband. He responded immediately, threading one hand through her hair and sliding the other around her waist. It wasn't slow and sweet - he'd never been one for slow, whilst she'd never been very sweet - but neither was it rushed and frantic. Rather, strong, intense, consuming. He was graceful where she was stiff and wooden, slowly coaxing the warmth out of her as he always had done. His hands were strong and skilled, so different from the coldness of her husband that never failed to make her at least slightly uneasy. It was breaking his vows and hers what they were doing, but neither of them were saints as it was. Both had blood on their hands. Both had sinned before. And apart from all that, Ross simply didn't care. She had no time for meaningless honour after the life she had lived, and the idea of passing up Jaime for the promises she had made to a man she felt nothing for was a repellent one.

Neither of them noticed the small dark-haired figure appear, green eyes blinking through the tiny crack where the door hadn't properly closed for several seconds before vanishing.

"So?" He asked her, after, as they lay together in the dark in her bed. She wasn't one to want to be held at night, but now - as she lay against his chest, his arm around her waist - she didn't entirely mind. "How do I compare to your lord husband?" She couldn't see his smirk, but she could hear it.

"Bigger," Was her short reply, smiling as he laughed, nudging his side with her elbow. "Who says I meant you?"

"You did," He replied, pulling her closer with the arm wrapped around her shoulder. "But not in so many words. You've never been that enthusiastic before. Everything about you tonight was screaming dissatisfaction,"

"_Was_?" She raised an eyebrow that he couldn't see, but, like his smirk, he could probably hear it. "You've a high opinion of yourself,"

"Ah, you've known that for a while," There was a silence.

"I missed you," The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she immediately felt like a fool. Perhaps it was the wine, for she'd never have been so open ordinarily. She quickly continued. "No one else knows what it was like,"

"You had it worse than me," He shifted slightly, and she ended up nestled tighter in his arms. "I didn't have to fuck him. But I know what you mean. Everyone seems to think I was off on a grand adventure, then killed the king for the hell of it, just because I could," The disdain in his tone was tangible. "I dread to think what they think of you,"

"I'm certain my goodmother thinks I sat around like a princess in a tower for two and a half years, sleeping with whatever Targaryen guardsman took my fancy until I got pregnant," She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled.

"Isn't that what happened?" He said wickedly. "Just with a few bits missing," She turned to him with a flat look, but couldn't help but smile.

"You didn't take my fancy," She said.

"What do you call it, then?" He asked, amused. "The seductive northern temptress taking advantage of the good, innocent knight of the kingsguard?" She snorted at that, the entire idea being absurd.

"You're thinking of two other people," She looked him in the eye. "Did I tell you I tried to kill my husband the night before my wedding?" It didn't feel strange to say it aloud for the first time, not to him. He laughed, not as surprised as he should've been.

"No," His eyes were gleaming. "Do tell,"

Her second daughter was born nine months later, after she had returned to the Dreadfort. Morganna Bolton, she was named, and though her hair was dark and her eyes were steel-grey, Ross could see little else Stark about her. And there was certainly more Snow than Bolton in her pretty face. Her daughter was stunningly beautiful, where Ross and her husband and her twins were not; perhaps she could get away with saying she looked like Lyanna? She'd need a story for when Lady Margaret came nosing around. The last thing she needed was her goodmother going round proclaiming her as much a whore as she'd always claimed.

The nursemaid brought in her children and Domeric Bolton to meet the new baby. Edrick and Aileen weren't even a year and a half old, too young to understand that they even had a new (half) sister. Seven year old Domeric loved Morganna from first sight - a shame they weren't actually related - whilst four year old Ren seemed slightly less wary when he first saw her than he had with the twins. He was most likely more used to babies now; if anything, he seemed fascinated by Morganna, little face frowning in concentration. Ross smiled as her eldest son peered at her newest daughter.

"She's very red," He said. "And Aileen wasn't this small,"

"You were barely bigger than she is," Ross replied, and he frowned more, carefully reaching out a hand to touch the baby. He seemed startled when Morganna reached out a tiny baby hand and gripped his finger with her own, looking to Ross with wide eyes, and she laughed. He moved his finger experimentally up and down. A small smile tugged at his lips when Morganna didn't let go, her hand moving with his as he stared at her.

"Her eyes are like mine,"

Ross' stomach gave a nasty lurch. Ren had many of her own sharp features, but his eyes were all Jaime's. Morganna's, whilst a different colour, matched.

"She's your sister," She said. "You're bound to look alike. She's got your hair too, and mine,"

"Half sister," He corrected automatically, which saddened her. He was old enough now to know what a bastard was, that his name was Snow and that Edrick, Aileen and Morganna (to the rest of the world) were not his full siblings. Though he got along as well with Domeric as if they were actual brothers - rather than his bastard stepbrother - even at this age he knew he shouldn't ever give Lord Bolton reason to notice him. Her eldest son was more perceptive than any boy that age had a right to be. He wasn't especially bookish, but was capable in his lessons, and was already learning to read and write; at least he hadn't got his father's skill in that regard, his letters were better than Jaime's already. He was due to start training in the yard in the next few months. Ross could only guess how that was going to turn out.


	8. Green Eyes

King's Landing was very different to anywhere Ren had been before. The cramped, crowded city seemed a whole other world to the vast open wilderness of the North, even to the woodlands and rolling hills of the Riverlands. There were so many people, none of whom he knew bar his mother, Uncle Ned and the dozen Stark and four Bolton guards that had accompanied them south. His mother had chosen them specifically for their speed on horseback, wanting to reach the city as fast as possible, and return to the north equally as quickly. She disliked the south, he knew. He might have only been ten years old, but he had heard whispers of the brutality of the Mad King, who had kept his mother prisoner during Robert's Rebellion. There had even been whispers that Aerys Targaryen was Ren's father, though Lord Bolton didn't allow that talk in the Dreadfort. Ren knew he wasn't a Targaryen, anyway. His mother _hated_ Targaryens, and had his father really been the old king, he would not be here today.

His uncle felt similarly, disliking southron politics - the only reason they were here was because King Robert had demanded the presence of his uncle for the tourney to celebrate Prince Joffrey and Princess Myrcella's eight nameday, and his mother had brought him along - but Ren didn't mind the city himself. The overwhelming sights, sounds and smells were a lot to take in, but he found himself able to blend in here, stay mostly invisible in a way he had never been able to in Winterfell or the Dreadfort, where everyone knew him as Rosennis Stark's bastard, and he had to do his best to stay out of sight of Lord Bolton or Catelyn Stark. Here, he was just another skinny boy in plain clothes, and everyone's eyes just passed him by.

He wasn't here to hide away all the time, though. That was why he had gone to the practice yard early on his first morning in the Red Keep, blunted tourney sword in hand, ready to train as he had done every day since he was old enough to pick up a sword.

He had expected to be the first one there - he always was, whether he was in Winterfell or the Dreadfort, and was always the last to leave before lunch - however an angry looking dark-haired boy, perhaps only two years his elder but twice as strong by the look of him, was there already, practicing determinedly hacking at a dummy with a sword that looked far too big for him. The boy was good, though. Not as good as Ren, but few people under sixteen were. Not many _over_ sixteen were. That wasn't arrogance, as he often told his mother when she reproached him for it, it was a fact. This boy was definitely stronger than he was though; Ren's greatest weakness was that although he was tall for his age, his frame was rather lean and lanky.

"What are you looking at?" Ren realised the boy was looking his way, heavy brow lowered in somewhat defensive suspicion - he spoke with a Westerlands accent, like the queen and the redcloaked guardsmen - until he saw the sword in Ren's hand, and his angry eyes lit up. "Do you want to spar? It's not as much fun with a dummy," Ren smiled.

The boy was definitely far stronger, but Ren was quicker. He also had an advantage in that he fought with his left hand, which tended to throw his opponent slightly, so - as normal when fighting with boys his own age - he triumphed, but after a longer fight than usual; like he said, the other boy was good. He knocked the large sword - which couldn't have helped with his balance - out of the boy's hands, and had his own sword at his throat. The boy's dark blue eyes widened, clearly not used to losing.

"You cheated," He accused, looking angrier than before. "I should've won, you're too skinny to beat me," Ren glowered at him, irritated, lowering his sword.

"I didn't cheat," He snapped. "I'm just better," For a moment he thought the other boy would hit him. Clearly he was thinking about it, but then a bark of laughter sounded behind them. Both spun around, unaware they were being watched, and saw a man stood in the shade, leaning against a column. Tall, handsome, with a lion's mane of golden curls and a rather arrogant smirk, Ren recognised him instantly. Even if he hadn't had memories of him winning the joust at the Riverrun tourney he and his mother had attended when he was four - and other memories, that Ren wasn't quite sure of himself - Ser Jaime Lannister wasn't an easy man to mistake. His resemblance to the queen was uncanny, and though the white cloak of the Kingsguard wasn't draped around his shoulders - he must be off duty - he wore a red tunic and the Lannister lion roared from the pommel of his sword.

"He's right, boy," The knight lazily pushed off the column, speaking to the other boy. "He is better," The boy scowled, which seemed to amuse Lannister. "Don't sulk, that doesn't make you bad. I bet you could beat someone twice your age, is that right?" He was now looking at Ren, who raised his eyes to answer, not missing the strange look that flashed through Lannister's expression as he saw his face, but was quickly hidden.

"Yes. Ser," He added after a pause; his mother was strict about manners, even though he was only a bastard and it didn't really matter like it did with Robb, Edrick and Domeric. "I beat the Master-of-Arms at the Dreadfort two moons ago, and he's six-and-thirty," Lannister's smirk grew.

"See, Loreon," He turned back to the other boy, who he seemed to know. Perhaps he was his squire; that meant he was highborn, which explained his annoyance at losing. Highborns were very proud, even his mother and siblings to some extent. Ren supposed he was too, having grown up around them. "No need to show that famous temper of yours. Even if the lad isn't afraid to tell you he's better,"

"My mother tells me I shouldn't get too arrogant," Ren narrowed his eyes, slightly irritated by this. Lannister turned to him with glittering eyes.

"I _bet_ she does," Ren remembered the man knew his mother from Robert's Rebellion. _And Riverrun_. "What's your name, boy?"

"Renan, Ser. Snow," He disliked giving his baseborn name, where his trueborn siblings could call themselves Bolton, his cousins Stark. Lord Bolton would kill him without a second thought for using his name, whilst Lady Catelyn would probably do the same if he dared to use Stark. _But what about Lannister? No, I was only four, I don't know what I saw_.

"Ross Stark's boy," Lannister didn't seem all that surprised. It was rare Ren heard anyone call his mother that. She hadn't been Lady Stark in nine years, and no one but his uncles Ned and Benjen called her Ross. He didn't correct the man, though. Ross Stark's son sounded better than Lady Bolton's bastard. "You fight with your left hand. She - writes with her left,"

"How long were you watching, Uncle?" The boy, Loreon, asked. _Uncle?_ Ren's eyes widened a fraction in surprise. That meant this boy, the boy that he had been sparring with was the prince, for Ser Jaime was the queen's brother. But the prince was younger, surely, there was no way in the seven hells that this giant had just turned _eight_.

"Long enough," Lannister said idly, eyes still on Ren. He smirked, as though reading his mind. "Don't worry, boy, he's not the prince," The boy looked at him, anger at losing apparently forgotten.

"You thought I was Joffrey?" He grinned, shaking his head. "My mother is Ser Jaime's sister, the younger one, Lady Banefort. Formerly Giana Lannister. I'm the King's bastard. Storm, not Baratheon," He said this matter-of-factly, but took on a darker look at those words. Jaime Lannister still hadn't taken his eyes off Ren.

"Snow," Lannister eyed him appraisingly. "I haven't seen you since you were a year old. I knew your mother during the days of dear old Aerys," His eyes flashed and he smiled in dark amusement. Ren could easily believe that this man had slashed a sword across the throat of the Mad King he was sworn to protect. He himself didn't quite understand why his Uncle Ned despised the man so much for that act; from the little he had heard of the old king, from his mother and various others, the man had been a true monster. "I saw you walk for the first time, before you fell flat on your arse," Loreon sniggered and Ren scowled. Lannister grinned. "Let's see how far you've come," He held his hand out to Loreon. The boy understood what he meant, handing over his blunted sword, grinning as Ren's eyes widened in realisation.

"Good luck. I don't last a minute," Loreon's words weren't exactly encouraging as Lannister turned to him, intentions clear. Ren raised his sword in time, and Lannister smirked, striking at his left, then his right, testing him, how he moved. _This is one of the most skilled fighters in all Seven Kingdoms_; that thought didn't make him nervous, rather sent a cold thrill up his spine.

Fighting with Jaime Lannister was unlike anything Ren had done before. The knight was holding back, that was plain to see, and despite Ren's best efforts - which had disarmed grown men before in the yards of Winterfell and the Dreadfort, to much astonishment from onlookers - he remained irritatingly relaxed, barely even breaking a sweat to keep up. He was faster, more agile, _better_ than anyone Ren had ever seen before, and he wasn't even trying. At no point during their spar did Ren have the upper hand; it was like a cat toying with a mouse.

After some time - though Lannister had drawn it out, challenging him, the fight was still annoyingly fast - the inevitable happened, and he was soundly beaten, sword at his throat. He stood, breathing heavily whilst Lannister looked as unruffled as before.

"I don't feel as bad about losing now," Loreon laughed, then added. "Though I bet I'm a better lance," That was doubtlessly true, as Ren had never tried jousting in his life, but he was hardly going to tell the boy that.

"Bet you're not,"

"Have you even got a horse that can tilt?"

"I've got a seventeen-hand courser," Lannister laughed at that.

"Your mother rides the courser," He corrected. "I'm guessing yours is the shaggy garron stabled beside it?" Ren scowled as Loreon leered.

"I can still ride the courser. I can show you tomorrow," That was a lie. Though Ren was a more than capable horseman - he had to be to keep up with Domeric, his stepbrother had to be half horse himself - he wouldn't dare ride his mother's horses. The beasts tended to look calm enough when she was mounted atop them, but turned half-wild the moment anyone else (even Domeric, with some of them) tried to do the same. He was starting to think she trained them that way.

"No," Lannister said, and both of them turned to him in confusion. "You'll be reporting to me tomorrow, as my squire," Loreon's mouth dropped open, and Ren couldn't believe he was serious. _If that's not proof..._

"I'm not even one-and-ten," He spoke after several seconds of dumbstruck silence. "And I'm baseborn. And - "

"You're better than someone twice your age," Lannister cut him off. "And you're tall enough to look older. That's not a problem," He held up a hand, anticipating his protest. "It doesn't matter that you're a bastard, any man can become a knight," Ren broke off, but still looked uneasy. He had never thought about being a knight; there were very few knights in the north, as they didn't follow the faith of the Seven. Lannister muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath about Stark stubbornness, before raising his voice to a normal volume again. "Would you rather spend your days being looked down on as a bastard in your mother's husband's castle?" That struck close to home. He had thought about what he was to do when he came of age, for Lord Bolton would not suffer his presence in the Dreadfort for much longer. The best option he had was looking for a position at Winterfell, Master-of-Arms perhaps, household guard, or even steward.

"Alright," He said slowly. "But... why?" _Would he say anything?_

"Like I said," Lannister's tone was light. "You're better than someone twice your age. You could be one of the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, with proper teaching,"

* * *

"Did you ask him to do it?" Ren pushed open the doors to his mother's horse's stable, knowing he'd find her here since she wasn't in her rooms.

"Ask who what?" She frowned, glancing at him as she fit the new bridle the king had gifted her to the horse. "Speak clearly, Ren,"

"Ser Jaime," Her fingers stilled on the noseband, and she turned back to him, face blank. "He asked me to be his squire," She stared at him for a second. "Did you ask him to?" He pressed. "I know you knew each other," _Riverrun, Riverrun, Riverrun_. She was silent, thinking, and he knew to press no further.

"I did nothing," She said after a while. "He asked you himself,"

"But why?" Ren asked. She had returned to the bridle, fingers gentle with the head-shy animal, murmuring soothing nonsense in the Old Tongue when it shied away. As she did so, her sleeve slipped down her arm, revealing several nasty-looking bruises and a few minor wounds. What could she possibly have been doing to get those? They were almost like the marks he got from training; he eyed the outline of the long dagger she always kept hidden in her skirts suspiciously. Forgetting that, though, he wanted her to tell him the truth, now was as good a time as any; or perhaps there truly was nothing to tell, and his father really was just some Targaryen guardsman.

"Has he seen you fight?" He nodded; she knew he had without looking around. "Then there's your answer. He's not one to play favourites, trust me,"

Knowing he'd get nothing more out fo her, Ren left his mother with her horse, stewing in his own thoughts, one memory in particular refusing to leave his head. A dark corridor at Riverrun, a crack in a door, muffled voices, a golden man with a lion's mane of hair, his mother in his arms, smiling like he'd rarely seen her smile before. He had only been four years old at the time, so he wondered if he remembered it truly as it was. He was only ten now, but he wasn't stupid. He hadn't known what they were doing at the time; hadn't up until several months ago, in fact, when listening for an hour outside Theon Greyjoy's bedroom door (waiting for him to come to an archery session the Stark ward had forgotten) had destroyed any innocent notions he may have had about that encounter.

What he had seen didn't make Jaime Lannister his father. When he thought it like that, it sounded stupid, uselessly wishful thinking by a naive little bastard boy. It wasn't like he wanted the man to be his father, if he got to chose. He wanted a father like his Uncle Ned, strong but honourable, kind to his family, even his bastard Jon Snow.

But stood in front of his mother's looking glass, he couldn't deny that he could see it. Not in his dark hair, sharp chin and thin lips, but in the slant of his jaw, the way he smiled, his high cheekbones, his green eyes, even his nose. He wanted to ask her, but even the idea was unthinkable.

* * *

There was a big stir a week or two before Ross was meant to return back north, brought by the arrival of Lord Tywin's party from the Westerlands. It wasn't Lord Tywin himself that caused the upset, but rather his daughter, Giana Banefort, who accompanied him, unexpected by anyone given that she hadn't left the Westerlands since the birth of her bastard son. Her distance was most likely enforced by her father, but was perhaps wise, as Cersei's face when she saw her sister within a hundred yards of her husband was nothing short of hateful. If she had known the woman was coming, she would have certainly done her best to stop it. The queen greeted Giana with a gracious smile, but the look in her eyes was poisonous. Ross found it all rather amusing, and irritating at the same time. Cersei wished her sister was gone, but all Ross wanted was for her own to be standing beside her.

Giana did not seem like the silly, vacuous girl Ross remembered from Harrenhal. She supposed everyone changes from that age; Jaime definitely had. The woman still laughed easily and exuded an air of generosity and kindness, but she had grown up for sure. The story was that she was there for the tourney, but Ross recognised the look in her eyes; of course she was here for her son (the prospect of shortly leaving Ren was one Ross was trying not to think about). Nonetheless, Robert doted on her like he'd never doted on Cersei. Giana still acted a little darling, not even on purpose; she was still naive in that respect, because Ross didn't get the impression the woman was trying to lead Robert on. She was managing to, though, that was unmistakeable. Maybe the king was attracted to her simply because he saw her as a better version of Cersei, or maybe he just wanted to spite the queen, but regardless, he wanted her, that was plain for everyone to see. Ross saw Jaime's smile tighten as he stood behind Robert's chair at the opening feast, whilst the king dishonoured both his sisters at once by blatantly flirting with Giana the entire night.

Ross left the feast rather late. The halls on the way back to her chambers were mostly deserted, which is why she chose that way; at least her years here during the rebellion had taught her the best ways to go to not be bothered. She came across a strange scene, however, not too far from the great hall, but a good enough distance to not be overheard.

"Come _on_, you enjoyed it the first time,"

"Robert, no," The dainty form of Giana Lannister was stood beside a shadowed alcove, looking exasperated as she tried to remove the king's enormous hand from her waist. "I've told you, I'm married now," Stood slightly further back was a kingsguard knight, Barristan Selmy, with an uncomfortable expression on his face as he looked determinedly at a point on the wall. But as ever, Barristan the Bold did nothing.

"So am I," Robert grunted. He was drunk, yes, but not as drunk as he could've been. Sober enough to know better. Ross narrowed her eyes.

"Yes, and you're very handsome, but I actually _like_ my husband," The woman tried again to squirm out of his grip. "And as much as I love Loreon, I don't particularly want to give him a black-haired brother or sister. It was bad enough pushing _him_ out, let alone - oh!" She suddenly noticed Ross standing there. Robert looked up at her exclamation and straightened, though kept his arm around Giana. Selmy's expression became even more uncomfortable.

"Ross!" The king had no trace of shame on his face. "Tell Giana how lovely she looks this evening," He smiled charmingly.

"I'll tell _Lady_ Giana that we're starting to make a habit of this," Ross raised an eyebrow wryly, and Giana's lips twitched. "All due respects, your Grace, but get off her," Robert looked shocked, then angry.

"This is none of your business, Stark,"

"You're right, it's not," She shrugged. "But do you really want to go down in history as the king who got not one, but two bastards on his wife's younger sister? Lord Tywin would hardly be pleased. What is it he likes to say? A Lannister always pay his debts," Forget Lord Tywin, Jaime would readily become a kingslayer twice over if this man got his sister pregnant again. Robert scowled, as he tended to do when he was speaking to her and realised she had a point.

"I'm glad I never married you," He mumbled. "You're too much like Ned by half," He let go of Giana, who stepped away, brushing down her skirts. Robert eyed her darkly. "I wish I'd married you," He swayed slightly where he stood. "We'd have had five more children, just like Loreon. And you're not a poisonous bitch like your sister," Giana opened her mouth, but the king was already stumbling away down the darkened corridor. Selmy hastened to follow, but Ross stepped into his path.

"Well done, Ser Barristan," She deliberately pulled the sleeve of her gown slightly up her arm, revealing the ends of the white scars from years ago, a few of the deeper scratch-marks that had never quite healed fully. "I'm glad to see that standards of knightly honour are as high as they ever were round here," Her tone was mocking but her expression was cold.

"Apologies, my lady," The old knight sighed. "I have to go after the king," He stepped around her and went after Robert. She stood in the same spot for a few seconds, staring angrily at the space where his head had been, before she remembered she wasn't alone.

"What was that?" Giana frowned slightly as she lowered her sleeve.

"A token from the Mad King," Ross didn't especially fancy elaborating on that. If the woman was too slow to work it out, she wasn't going to walk her through it. Unfortunately, however, Giana wasn't as dim as she came across.

"Oh - " She cut off her shocked exclamation. "That's - I'm so sorry," Ross said nothing. "Just then, with Ser Barristan... Did he know about - you know,"

"The Kingsguard guards the king," Ross looked at her. "Wherever he goes,"

"And he just let it happen?" Giana looked aghast. She might have grown up, might have suffered the shame of a bastard, but she had never known what it felt like to watch your family burn to death before your eyes, dread every footstep in the corridor, to hate a man more than death itself. In truth, not many highborn ladies had, so Ross could hardly hold it against her. Not really.

She nodded, once.

"The Kingsguard serve the king," Her tone was hoarse. "They don't judge him," Giana was silent for a moment. Just a moment, however.

"Did Jaime - " Her green eyes widened again in horror, but Ross cut her off with a look.

"Jaime would've stabbed him the back any time during that last year if I'd asked him to," She smiled slightly. "But I didn't. So yes, he did stand there outside the door whilst Aerys visited me. He even held my son, as the king couldn't stand the baby crying. Then afterwards he brought me moon tea," She broke off. "Well, until they found it. This is from the day my maid found my tea," She held her wrist up to the torchlight, where a wide white scar slashed down the pale skin. Then she realised she had probably drunk too much, and was certainly sharing too much, and shook her sleeve back down. "Robert's no Aerys," She said bluntly. "But I'd advise against wandering off alone with him again. People will talk, if nothing else," Giana looked like she was about to say something, but Ross had already left.

* * *

Ren's mother left King's Landing a month or so later, with his uncle and the rest of the Stark and Bolton men, leaving him alone with practically strangers. His uncle hadn't been pleased to hear that he was squiring for one of the most infamous knights in the realm, but his mother had talked him out of refusing to allow it. Ren hadn't quite known what to expect after they had all gone. He had been given a tiny sleeping cell near the White Sword tower, which he shared with two other boys, squires as well, but both highborn. Those two had known each other for years - one was a Rykker, the other a Brune - and perhaps for this reason, or the fact both were four-and-ten, they didn't pay Ren much attention. He didn't mind, though. He had made a firm friend in Loreon Storm, who was regarded by most of the other boys in the training yard to be someone to respect, despite his bastard name and only being eleven. When he wasn't acting sullen, Loreon had a good sense of humour and was not afraid of giving advice to the others where needed, making him generally well-liked; equally, his Baratheon temper was one to fear, and more than a few of the others had reportedly been on the receiving end.

In contrast, Ren did not like Loreon's brother, Prince Joffrey. The boy was eight, slightly older than his half-siblings Edrick and Aileen, though the prince and the twins were about as different as could be. Edrick excelled in the training yard. Aileen was a skilled rider. Edrick was brave and adventurous. Aileen loved to read, spending hours in the library at Winterfell and the Dreadfort alike. Joffrey was none of those things.

Ren doubted the prince even knew he existed - they had sparred once, Ren had won, and Joffrey had thrown a tantrum (hardly an unusual occurrence) - but he had seen how the spoilt boy acted. Loreon had muttered to him the first time he saw the prince that Joffrey's twin sister Myrcella would likely be better with a sword, if they gave her one. The boy had little interest in learning how to fight; every so often he would demand to be brought down to the yard so he could flail around and bully some of the smaller boys, but for the most part he shunned his sword lessons. Loreon told Ren that a year ago - when he had first arrived from Casterly Rock where he had grown up - that he had tried to befriend his half-brother, but the boy was as bad as the queen, apparently, and refused to listen to anything Loreon had to say on the principle that he was a bastard, 'unworthy' of talking to a prince. From that moment on, there would never be any love between the two; Loreon was proud in his own way, and extremely stubborn, making any chance of reconciliation impossible.

Joffrey might have bullied anyone he thought he could get away with picking on, but his favourite target by far was his younger brother, Tommen, who had just turned six. Tommen was a rather placid boy, with few ambitions other than to play with whatever pet caught his interest (a fawn, this week), but Ren had caught him one day running through the castle, alone - which was unusual, the queen seemed to like to keep him wrapped up in padding - and in floods of tears. The boy hadn't been looking where he'd been going, and had run straight into Ren coming around a corner, falling over onto his behind and just sitting there and crying some more. Ren was never one for tears, having put up with far too many from his sister Morganna back home (the girl was masterful at turning them on to get what she wanted), and although a selfish (logical) part of him knew he'd likely be blamed for the prince's disappearance, and should leave the scene as soon as possible, instead he stopped.

"Why don't you get up," Tommen looked up at him with wide, watery eyes, the same green as his own. "Come on, there's no use in just sitting there," He held out a hand, which the prince took after a moment's hesitation, lip trembling. Ren would've thought that no one had spoken harshly to him in his life, if he hadn't seen that harridan of a queen constantly snapping at him, where she cooed over her precious Joffrey.

"My arm hurts," Tommen sniffed.

"It's just a bruise, I'm sure you'll live," Ren said, then realised that might have been a bit short. Six years old or not, the boy was still a prince, and had the potential to get him into a lot of trouble. "Do you want to go and see your brother, Loreon? I was going there anyway,"

"He's always training," Tommen looked forlorn. "Mother says I'm too young to train," Ren thought about that for a second.

"Come on," He decided, consequences be damned. "Let's go and find Loreon,"

As predicted, Loreon was in the training yard, once again struggling with that giant sword - a gift from his father - which he insisted on using after the master-at-arms wasn't there to make him put it down.

"Tommen?" He looked up in surprise as they approached. "What are you doing here?" He glanced at Ren.

"I found him on his own, crying," Ren shrugged. "I didn't want any trouble, at least there's an explanation for why he'd be with you,"

"Why were you crying?" Loreon frowned. Tommen's lip began to tremble again.

"Joffy... he - " He broke off, sobbing. "He k-killed my fawn. I screamed - and screamed, but he j-just laughed, and said he'd t-tell mother I was being a baby again. So I ran away," The two older boys looked at each other.

"Why didn't you hit him?" Loreon asked. "If he'd done that to me, I'd smash that pretty face in," Ren didn't doubt it. Loreon would be happy to do that anyway.

"He's b-bigger than me," Tommen sniffed.

"Hits like a girl, though," Ren muttered.

"He's right," Loreon snorter. "I bet if you learnt how, you could hit him harder," It was true, Tommen was only two years younger than his brother, and where Joffrey was tall for his age, he was rather skinny too, where his brother was more sturdy. Well, plump, at the moment, but even so. The little prince looked up at them with wide eyes.

"I don't want to hit _anyone_," He paused. _Gods save us_. "Not even Joff - "

"Do you want him to kill one of your kittens next?" Loreon interrupted with a flat look. Tommen shook his head vehemently, looking like he was going to start crying again. "Then don't let him. Because he will, Tom, you know that,"

"Don't think of it as hitting someone," Ren continued, when the boy still looked unsure. "Think of it as protecting your other animals," It would be worth teaching this pampered prince how to fight if only to rub it in Joffrey's stupid face that his younger brother was better than him. Tommen considered that.

"I... s'pose," He wiped his nose on his velvet sleeve, nodding quaveringly. "But what about Mother? She doesn't want me fighting,"

"Just tell Father you want to learn how to use a sword and he'll be delighted," Loreon shrugged. "She can't stop him," He eyed Tommen doubtfully. "Actually, I'd better mention it to him," He was probably right in that, the king would probably laugh in the younger boy's face. It was common knowledge in court that Robert Baratheon had little time for his trueborn children; he actively disliked Joffrey, had no patience with the placid Tommen and didn't know what to do with a dainty little princess like Myrcella. Ren would have just put that down to the man not being interested in his children, if he hadn't delighted in his bastard son, Loreon Storm. Loreon went on every hunt the king held, and they regularly sparred together in the training yard. That was why Loreon insisted on that stupid greatsword, because the king had given it to him. If the queen hadn't disliked Loreon enough simply because he was the child of her husband and her younger sister, the blatant favouritism of him over her true born children only made her hatred of him worse. Loreon himself had said matter-of-factly that if he wasn't half-Lannister and Lord Tywin protected those of his blood, even bastards he had little to no time for, then Cersei would have had him killed long ago.

Loreon did indeed mention the matter of Tommen's training to King Robert, who responded as predicted, first by laughing, followed with a grunt of 'perhaps the boy will amount to some sort of soldier after all'. So Tommen joined them in the training yard a week or so later, wrapped up in enough padding to make him almost completely round. Loreon and Ren both snorted at the sight of him, and many of the other boys also laughed, though somewhat more subtly. He was hopeless when the master-at-arms gave him a wooden practice sword and set him against one of the younger boys around his age, but not for lack of trying. Despite his timid disposition, Tommen showed more grit than Joffrey did, getting up doggedly off the floor every time he was knocked over. Yes, he might have been openly sobbing as he did so, but at least he didn't throw the sword down and have a tantrum like his brother would've.

"I hear Tommen made it to his first training session today," Ser Jaime said later that day, sounding amused. The two of them had just finished a sparring match; Ren was breathless whereas, frustratingly, the knight hadn't even broken a sweat.

"Loreon spoke to the king,"

"How was the boy?" His tone was doubtful, and Ren smiled faintly at that.

"He got knocked over at least once a minute," He said. "And cried the whole time. But he got up though, after every one. He'll have plenty of bruises, but at he's better than Joff - " He broke off, realising he was talking to Joffrey's uncle. To his surprise, however, Ser Jaime only laughed.

"It doesn't take much to be better than Joffrey," He shook his mane of hair. "His mother asked me to try and teach him how to fight just before you arrived, because apparently the master-at-arms was always so unfair to him," His expression showed exactly what he thought of that. "But he's my nephew, so I tried to teach him. It only took five minutes before he threw the sword down and stormed off," Ren wrinkled his nose and Ser Jaime laughed. "Back to it, then," He grinned. "I don't know what you were laughing about Tommen for, you'll have just as many bruises before the day is out,"

Ren's sword was already in his hand, rising to block the knight's oncoming strike.


	9. White Cloaks And Lies

Ross had been visiting King's Landing when Jon Arryn died. For a woman who hated the place, she seemed to spend rather a lot of time there. The stay in the city had almost been bearable at first; she had got to see her eldest son for the first time in two years, since he last visited the North aged thirteen. And also, Jaime seemed to have gone off Cersei for good. She had had her doubts when he first told her at Riverrun, which had faded the last time she came south for Joffrey's named tourney, but now... she was almost certain.

The king was somewhat fatter than before. Apart from that, Robert was the same as ever - loud, brash and as a rule, drunk - and it was always pleasant to see crowned stag sigils in the places where three-headed dragons had once been. But then the Hand of the King, her brother's foster-father, had died suddenly, apparently of an illness, and the whole court was plunged into mourning. Supposedly. Ross was sure none of them gave a shit, really, except those who had known the hand well; they just kept up appearances. Even Arryn's wife didn't seem to care much. But Lysa had always been rather irritating. Ross was glad when she left in the middle of the night to return to the Eyrie.

Robert - one of the few to genuinely grieve for the man - had ranted and raged at Jon Arryn's death, before someone reminded him that he needed a new Hand. Ross had said nothing, she would swear to anyone. Robert had had the idea of upending half the court and dragging them all up to Winterfell completely on his own. The disgruntled members of the group muttered where they thought she couldn't hear about how Lord Stark's sister had whispered in the king's ear and persuaded him to make her brother his Hand. She had caught several saying that instead of whispers, she must have slept with Robert instead. One man had even dared to voice his suspicions on how Arryn happened to die at the same time Ross was in the south, how convenient it was that her brother was to become Hand straight after. She hadn't been able to let that one go, and had taken the man aside and told him in no uncertain terms exactly what she thought of that theory of his.

Of course, as the entire royal family was heading north, that meant Jaime was too.

The clang of steel echoed through the forest, disturbing the peaceful morning. Two people were sparring, a grim faced woman armed with a long, lethal looking dagger and a golden haired man bearing a sword, faces dappled with the dawn sunlight where it streamed down between the leaves. They were far enough away from everyone else that their scuffle wouldn't be heard, and though it was evident that the man was far more skilled than the woman - his natural, effortless grace with a sword was impossible to beat, especially with the reach the weapon gave him over the dagger - her ferocious, calculated defence and dodges were a worthy challenge. That was the point; defence. The dagger would never hold out against any sword for long, shown as he knocked the dagger out of her hand. His sword was at her throat in one smooth move, stopping her halfway from dropping to the floor to retrieve it.

"Dead," Jaime's tone was bored, which they both knew was false. The smugness was real though. Ross raised an eyebrow.

"I'm getting better," He lowered his sword as Ross went to retrieve the dagger, eyeing her critically.

"You'd be better off learning to use a sword," He nodded at the knife which she now held in her hands. "That'll only work if they don't see it coming. You'd need to surprise them,"

"And what would be the use in me using a sword?" She gave him a flat look. "I can't exactly carry one around. And I'm thin as a twig, all I've _got_ on my side is surprise," He snorted.

"Whilst I can safely say that you'd slash the throat of anyone who grabbed you," Her lips curled into a small smirk as she inspected the knife for any damage to the blade. "Whoever else he brought with him would then slit yours with their sword, Lady Bolton, dagger or no dagger,"

"Call me Lady _Stark_," She said pointedly.

"When you call me Ser," Ross snorted derisively at that, and he grinned. "What situations are you imagining getting into that made you feel like you needed to learn to fight?"

"You never know," She shrugged, then chuckled darkly. "If my husband ever finds out about us, I'll have to use it on myself before I get dragged off to the flaying chamber,"

"Do they actually have one?" He asked in interest.

"Under the castle," She grimaced. "I wasn't meant to find it, I don't think. The skin of my however-many-greats-grandfather still hangs on the wall. There's more recent ones, too. Ned would be furious if he knew, but it's not like I could tell him," Of all the ways her husband could utilise the blackmail he had on her - that she tried to stab him through the heart the night before their wedding - that wasn't the worst he could've asked of her, in all truth. It wasn't exactly a pleasant thought, though. Some of those skins had looked far too fresh for comfort.

"Charming," Jaime pulled a face. "Seriously though, you've got guards around wherever you go, unless you're with me. If you ever have to defend yourself that means we're all dead, meaning you're as good as,"

"Wouldn't you want to take some of them down with you, at least?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Forgive me, I forgot who I was talking to," He laughed. "I dread to think what would've happened if you'd been born a man, if you're this bloodthirsty as a woman,"

"You'd have been considerably more bored during the rebellion,"

"Quite possibly," He grinned. "Who says I wouldn't have found some other girl?" He was joking, and she rolled her eyes.

"If you paid her, perhaps," Ross said dryly. "You're even more arrogant now than when you were fifteen,"

"And you're twice as cruel," Jaime moved closer and wrapped his arms around her waist, breathing in the smell of her dark hair - currently tied back in a practical knot, although the exertion had caused several strands to come loose - as he buried his face in her neck. She was sweating, but he didn't seem to care. "_Lady Stark_," Ross relaxed instinctively at his touch, relaxed like she seldom did at all, leaning into him. She never could have believed she would be this at ease around a man, especially one like him. She never could've believed a man like him would act like this around a woman like her.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, just stood there, content with each other in a comfortable silence. She felt the morning breeze against her face, cool and crisp, contrasting with the warmth of the man behind her. The air felt like home. The refreshing chill that never reached beyond the Neck in summer. The smell of the trees and the earth. The quiet sense of isolation and wilderness that was never there in the south. She loved it, all. But even after all this time, after all the journeys she'd undertaken from north to south and north again, she still couldn't quite accept that the family she was returning to wasn't going to be as whole as it once was. That Winterfell was not even where she lived anymore.

The moment ended when Ross stepped forward, out of his arms, sheathing her dagger and turning to face him. Even sweaty and wearing a plain tunic and breeches, Jaime was still as handsome as ever. She preferred him like this, without all the Lannister finery, white cloaks and lies. It was easier to pretend it was just them, and no one else came into it. After seventeen years he was still as good looking, few signs of age in his face. Of course, thirty two was hardly an age to be concerned about, but the fact was that both of them were getting older. Gods, Morganna was eleven already. Her little girl wasn't so little anymore, neither was her sister Aileen. Edrick was half a man, and her eldest...

"What?" He asked at her thoughtful expression.

"Doesn't matter," She said, then gave a small smile. "Come here,"

"As if my lady needs to ask," He was only too happy to oblige as she pulled him towards her by the front of his tunic, one hand threading in her hair, the other gripping her waist, pulling her against him as their lips met in a fierce kiss. It started off far from innocent, and quickly became less and less so, until she pulled away, slightly breathless, ignoring his groan of protest. "_Ross_,"

"How long have we got?" She gasped slightly as she felt his hands shift beneath her borrowed breeches.

"Who gives a fuck," He murmured thickly, going in for another kiss. She let him for a while, a long while, until she regretfully pulled away again.

"Ren will be up for you soon,"

"You always know how to ruin things, Stark," Jaime pulled a face, but she knew he felt the same.

"Talking about my son doesn't ruin things," Ross said absently, picking her skirt from where it lay on the ground.

"It ruins my chances of - well," He broke off suggestively, giving her a laden smirk designed to get a response. She ignored it.

"Regardless, I am not letting you fuck me against a tree," She pulled the skirt over the breeches she wore to practice in. "I'm not a whore, no matter what half of King's Landing and my goodmother say,"

"That ruins things as well," Jaime gestured distastefully to the skirt as they walked back to the camp together, her lacing it up as they went.

"Like what?"

"My view," She elbowed him in the side - for both his lechery and the bad jape - but without any real malice, and he laughed shamelessly, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her close. As they neared the large camp of soldiers and nobles alike, they wordlessly broke away from each other before anyone could see them, heading in opposite directions. Ross made sure to tuck the dagger into the folds of her skirt.

She got several nods and greetings of 'Lady Bolton' as she returned to her modest tent. There were two Bolton guards waiting outside, who she nodded to - her husband insisted on her being guarded whenever she went away, even to Winterfell, and didn't even pretend it was for her own safety - but she was good at arranging the more... _easygoing_ men to travel with her, who would turn a blind eye if she went on an early morning walk (as was her custom anyway) or was late returning to her chambers, so long as she turned a blind eye to their gambling, drinking and whoring.

She caught a glimpse of Jaime's golden hair near the King's pavilion further ahead, as well as the familiar dark head of Ren shadowing as ever behind him. At fifteen years old, nearly sixteen, her son was as tall as Jaime had been at that age, towering over his mother even though she was hardly short. Ross wondered how much her other children had grown in the four months they'd been apart. Morganna should be in Winterfell with her cousins by now, hopefully not trapped in the Dreadfort with the man everyone believed to be her father. Ross hoped Edrick and Aileen were there too. Ren had only seen his brother and sisters once since he had left, when he'd come back to visit two years ago.

There were servants to pack away the few belongings she had brought with her, however Ross could see the King's party was already setting off ahead of the rest, as usual, so quickly packed her own things with the help of a passing handmaid (camp follower) for efficiency's sake. Her horse - a young, spirited but fine dark bay palfrey, carefully chosen as a yearling by Ross to break herself - was saddled and ready, giving the boy who was holding her a hard time as she skittered and leapt around. The mare had supposedly just been broken. In reality it was a work in progress. Ross knew the mare well enough to ride it, but most others would... struggle. She quickly hurried to relieve the poor lad, taking the reins and brushing aside his apologies as she checked the girth.

"This one needs a firm hand," She said, easily springing up into the saddle without assistance. "Takes advantage otherwise," The horse resisted her for a few moments, giving a few small rears and dancing around as was her custom, but under Ross' steady hands she soon came good. Still energetic, but calmer, more controlled and less likely to injure herself by spooking or getting ahead of herself. Giving the boy a curt nod of thanks, Ross trotted away, then once she was away from the growing bustle of the camp broke into a canter to catch up with the King's party.

She made it easily - the speed of that horse truly was incredible, and she was very surefooted when she wasn't messing around - and slowed to the pace of the group. A few heads turned at her arrival, her son's amongst them, as well as Loreon Storm's - the King's bastard son by Giana Lannister, and Ren's closest friend - who rode with his father, instead of beside the wheelhouse like his trueborn brother Joffrey. The younger boy, Tommen, rode with his father too. Or rather with Loreon; Robert paid him scant enough attention, he was lucky to get a grunt of approval for decent swordswork. Ross herself much preferred riding up here as opposed to with the main group. Cersei's huge wheelhouse was as slow as an ox, and the many caravans and supply wagons trundling along were worse. Ordinarily she could make the journey to Winterfell in three weeks if she pushed herself - it was far quicker to travel with a party of a dozen guards as opposed to four hundred - so this slow pace was agonising. The king shared her impatience, and she could hear him loudly complaining from up ahead.

"We'll be lucky to make it by next week if we keep up this pitiful speed," He grumbled. "I keep forgetting how bloody huge Ned's part of my kingdom is. I've half a mind to leave them all behind and gallop there myself... but I don't think I could stand Cersei with a face like a smacked arse afterwards," Loreon grinned at that; his aunt loathed him and made no pretences otherwise. "Hope you don't mind the expression in regard to your _dear_ sister, Lannister," Robert always loved to antagonise Jaime, but after the argument he and his sister had had shortly after she arrived in the city, Ross couldn't help but feel that Jaime would agree. "Ha!" Robert laughed, the only one with a voice loud enough to be heard this far back. "Even her own brother can't deny it. Speaking of brothers... Ross, is that you just arrived? Get up here, would you, and tell us if we're nearly at your Ned's blasted castle yet," Ross trotted up to the king's side, the Kingsguard parting to make way for her.

"Your Grace," She nodded to him.

"How many times have I told you to call me Robert?" He frowned.

"As you wish, Robert," She nodded. She didn't mind the king's company. He had a good humour, when he wasn't drunk or angry or proposing marriage, and didn't suffer fools gladly. He was blunt and to the point - though he was undoubtedly unsuited to sitting on a throne, he at least admitted it - which she appreciated in the viper's nest that was King's Landing. And he had always been fond of her. It might be down to his friendship with her brother, or his love of her sister, but he had warmly welcomed her and Ren into his court even as others had not, and for that she was grateful.

"There you go, wasn't so hard," Robert's grin was back. "So tell me, you're the local girl, how long until we reach Winterfell?"

"My son could have answered that question," Ross said, and he laughed.

"So he could," He said. "But sadly, as good a squire as your boy makes, he could never look as pretty as yourself when doing so," Ross raised an eyebrow as many of the knights laughed - even though she was married, her bastard seemed to give them permission to leer, even if there wasn't much to leer at - but didn't let herself be irritated by the man's words; they were what they were, meant in a light hearted jest despite Robert's history with women.

"You flatter me," Her reply was dry, but Robert didn't seem to notice. She wasn't one for compliments, not from most people; sincere or otherwise, they made her suspicious. "Winterfell is but a short distance away. We should make it within the day. But if it's pretty you want, then I'm sure Ser Jaime would be well fit for the role," Everyone laughed at that, Robert louder than anyone. Ross dared a smile back at Jaime on her right, who quirked an eyebrow challengingly.

"Ah, your wit is as sharp as ever, my lady," Robert said as the laughter died down. "You, boy," He looked to Ren. "If you have half the guts of your mother, you'll go far in life. My Loreon has a good friend in you," Ren nodded his thanks as Loreon grinned in amusement from behind his father. "How goes his training, Kingslayer?" It was unusual for a king to ask after a squire, and a bastard at that, but Robert had never had much patience with social graces, and, irritating as it was for many, Ross often found herself respecting him more for it. His favourite child was his eldest bastard son, of course, over his trueborn heir.

"As to the boy's brains, I'm not sure," Jaime smirked. "However, his skill with the sword is considerable. He equals my own ability at that age. Almost," He added, making Ren snort quietly.

"Ah ha!" Robert called in mock triumph. "There we have it! Your great secret is uncovered, my lady. The boy is the son of none other than Ser Arthur Dayne," The others laughed but Ross didn't crack a smile. Just because Robert didn't see it didn't mean that one misplaced word wouldn't be enough to hint at the truth to others.

Watching the two of them ride together was bad enough. To Ross it stood out a mile, although that's because she was expecting to see it. But it was just so _obvious_, she didn't know how anyone could miss it. Ren had her dark hair, it was true, her pointed chin and thin lips, but the shape of his face, his lean build, his green eyes, his high cheekbones, his smile when he wanted to be charming, that was all from his father. Ren didn't look especially like Jaime, yet they were alike enough to make her worry. He was only a squire, and a bastard at that, so didn't get much attention, but people were bound to notice once he became a knight. Which he would, and soon. He was more than good enough. Her family, who knew them both better, were bound to notice in a few hours as they saw the two together for the first time. The knot in her stomach that had been forming the whole journey was now so heavy it almost hurt. The children were old enough to understand now; Robb, the eldest, had been nine years old when they left for King's Landing the first time, but he was fourteen now, a year younger than Ren. Sansa was eleven, Arya nine, Bran seven and Rickon three. And Catelyn would certainly notice, she was a sharp woman regardless of her other faults. And Ned... Gods, Ned. She knew he'd suspected for years, but never had anything confirmed.

And then there was Morganna, who looked more and more like Jaime by the day. She had Ross' dark hair and tall, skinny frame, that was true, the Stark grey eyes and long face, but the rest of her was almost all Lannister; Ross couldn't quite believe that no one else had noticed she did not look at all like a Bolton, and not that much like a Stark either. She was less likely to get noticed as a girl, but her daughter was hardly one to blend meekly into the background. It was worrying to say the least. She supposed it could've been worse - they could've both been born blonde haired and green eyed - but she worried nonetheless. There was more to lose if people found out the truth behind her daughter's parentage. Ren would be a scandal; Morganna would be a death sentence. Roose Bolton would hardly be one to tolerate infidelity in his wife, not a crime that shamed him as well as her. It might even be worth it to see the look on Lady Margaret's face - how that old crone was still alive, Ross had no idea - as though she made no secret she disliked Ross, Ren and Edrick, she had a queer sort of soft spot for her granddaughters Aileen and (in theory) Morganna, no matter how badly the girl behaved. But the thought of what would actually happen to Morganna in that situation was unthinkable.

That brought her mind back to the last conversation she'd shared with her husband, the conversation that had pushed her to ride south then, when she had been planning on going months later for Ren's sixteenth birthday.

_"You filthy hypocrite," It was rare that Ross argued with Lord Bolton, let alone insulted him. She didn't raise her voice, but she never did that. He didn't either; he still spoke in that quiet, unnerving way of his, but she could tell the anger was there. _

_"Watch your tongue," His pale eyes narrowed. "It is one thing for me, and quite another for you,"_

_"How is that not the definition of hypocrisy?" She had snapped back. "You have scorned me for years for having a bastard son. Now, after thirteen years of marriage, I find out that you have one yourself, and have had one for twenty two years,"_

_"I did not insist on bringing my baseborn son to live in a castle," He said dangerously. "You, my lady, insisted very strongly,"_

_"I do remember," She said, unimpressed. "But who are you to judge me for a sin committed before marriage, when you did the same behind the back of your first wife?"_

_"I'm a lord," His face was blank. "You are a lady," She stared at him._

_"Very well," She allowed, swallowing the cutting retort rising in her throat. "In all honesty, I couldn't care less if I never hear about this bastard again after this. But I don't think that will be the case. Not when a dozen complaints have come in together about the boy, and you send him off with a slap on the wrist,"_

_"His actions hardly warranted a beheading," _

_"I'm not so sure," She looked him hard in the eyes. "Torturing the animals was concerning, but that child?"_

_"The boy survived," Was her husband's reply._

_"And the five brutally raped girls? The one he imprisoned and tormented for a moon's turn? _The one with the flayed fingers_? Badly flayed, might I add," Her husband merely smiled faintly at that._

_"I raped Ramsay's mother," She actually laughed, mockingly. _

_"Of course you did," She shook her head, hardly surprised. "It's one thing trying to keep your people quiet by sending them off with a pittance of gold. It's another letting that monster roam freely to do it again, knowing that his lord father will do absolutely nothing to stop him. Hells, his lord father most likely taught him to flay,"_

_"No," Her husband said mildly. "If I had taught him, the flaying would hardly be bad,"_

Ross' mouth was pressed in a line as the King rode on, letting herself fall behind, behind Ren, who rode with Loreon on his other side; the two boys had always got on well, which she supposed she should be glad for. But her boy was a boy no longer, almost a man grown. She wondered exactly how much he suspected and felt guilty. He'd never asked, gods bless him, even as a young child. All the rumours and mutterings in Winterfell, then later the insults and sneers in King's Landing, and he'd never even asked why it was he didn't have a father, why he and his mother were scorned and mocked. But it was going to happen some day. Some day he was going to ask, and she didn't know what she was going to tell him.

Sometimes though, the way he looked at her... She couldn't help but think that he knew more than he let on. But she got that impression from him in general, not just in this, and not just in the way that all boys his age think they know everything. He was one of those people who constantly seemed to be thinking about something, whether alone or in the middle of a conversation. There was something in his eyes that reminded her rather strangely of Tywin Lannister. Though looking at him now - jesting with Loreon and a rather bemused Tommen about various girls he'd been with in King's Landing - she doubted Tywin Lannister had ever been like that.

Ross looked up at a shout from someone at the front, and her heart leapt as in the distance, far away but visible, she saw the grim grey walls of Winterfell rising out of wild northern landscape. Home. Nearly home. After all these years, she had yet to see a sight that warmed her more.


	10. Six Inch Nails

It was dusk by the time they reached Winterfell. The lanterns had been lit as the sun set over the moors and mountains, making the great grey castle appear almost warm and welcoming. It would've been home to Ross whatever it looked like. King's Landing was grand and impressive, but it never, ever felt like home; it had a dark history, had seen far too much pain over the years. As had the Dreadfort. She had been its lady for fourteen years, but there were certain places she went, sometimes, when she was alone, that just made her uneasy. A prickle on her neck, a shiver up her spine, like she shouldn't be there. No matter how long she stayed in that castle, Winterfell would always be where her heart lay.

She rode alongside Ren as they passed through the gates into the courtyard. She scanned the assembled crowd, hoping for a glimpse of her younger three children; the girls should have been in Winterfell a week already, and her son had been fostered there since he was nine. Sure enough, Edrick was stood to the right of the Starks, Aileen beside him, now a good inch or so shorter than her brother where they'd once been the same height. Of all her children, Aileen was the most like her, rather shrewd and reserved, though far more studious and eager to learn than Ross had ever been. And she looked most definitely like a Bolton. Edrick looked most like Ross of all of them, yet took after her brother Brandon in temperament, wild, hot-tempered and brazen, with more than a drop of wolfblood to him. Morganna, who was stood on her brother's other side, appeared a perfect young lady, but her mischievous grey eyes said otherwise, as did her ever-present amused grin. Oh hells, she looked too much like Princess Myrcella... Jaime at least would notice, if nothing else. Gods, she should have told him far earlier than this. Even she hadn't been completely sure herself, given how small she was when she was born, until the girl had started to grow to be a beauty. Since then, well. She hadn't been able to tell him. It was safer.

The King was greeted first, of course, impatient as ever but glad to see Ned. Then the queen - Ross had bitten back a smirk when the enormous wheelhouse couldn't fit through the gates so the occupants had to walk - and the three royal children, thirteen year old Joffrey and Myrcella, then eleven year old Tommen. Robert took noticeably greater pride in introducing Loreon after, who looked so much more like him than the queen's children, and the look in Cersei Lannister's eyes was murderous. And then it was their turn.

"Ross," Ned smiled at her as she approached him, having handed her horse over to an anxious-looking stable boy. She wasn't expecting a big show of a greeting from her brother, nor did she want one. She and Ned had always had the same self contained, reserved manner that often came across as cold to others.

"Ned," She smiled the same smile and went to embrace him, briefly but tightly. After they broke apart, Ross turned her attention to the three standing at the end of the line of Stark children. Whilst Ned greeted Ren, who was now taller than he was, she raised an eyebrow at her children, and Morganna didn't hesitate before rushing forward to meet her in a crushing hug. Edrick followed but didn't hug her, Aileen calm at his side as Ned was pulled away to the crypts by an impatient Robert, despite the queen's obvious displeasure. Cersei swept inside with her children, casting a characteristically disdainful look over everything, and everyone else began organising the party, leaving them in peace. Ross saw Jaime follow his sister, but glance their way, cool green eyes glancing over the girl he never even knew was his, before the second was over and he was gone. There would be time later, she told herself, ignoring the nasty feeling writhing in her stomach.

"I missed you," Morganna murmured against her chest. She wouldn't say it in anyone else's hearing. Robb and Edrick would surely tease her for it.

"And I you," Ross stroked her dark hair for a moment before releasing her, and returning her son's grin with a faint smile, mirrored by Aileen. "You look like you've got in trouble already," She said dryly, but put a hand on his shoulder briefly, knowing he wouldn't appreciate being fussed by his mother in front of people, giving Aileen a short, one-armed embrace.

"Never," He swore, and Aileen scoffed quietly.

"How long have you been in Winterfell?" Ross asked her daughter.

"We got here four days ago," Aileen gave a small smile. "Father's not coming anymore. He said to tell you,"

"Such a shame," Morganna's grin said otherwise. Roose Bolton was more often than not irritated with the girl he believed his daughter. She was Lady Margaret's favourite bar Aileen, and could be the picture of courtesy and charm when she wanted, but she had a sharp tongue on her, and tended to rile people against her more often than not with her irreverence. Much like her father. She was also... tricksy. That seemed the only word for it. She was a good liar, and enjoyed making things up for fun. Ross had learned to see through her, but everyone from her nursemaids to the guards at the Dreadfort and Winterfell had fallen victim to her tall tales, delivered with wide, innocent eyes.

"I didn't think he'd miss a chance to greet the king," Ross was nothing short of delighted at the fact that her husband wouldn't be there to see Morganna next to the Lannisters. It would've been doable, but difficult, to ensure his suspicions weren't aroused. Of course, it was harder to see if you weren't looking for similarities as she was, but any less chance of him seeing them together was nothing short of a blessing. He was a scarily intelligent man, Lord Bolton. That unsettling feeling she got in certain parts of the Dreadfort... she occasionally got that around her husband too. But in the end, he was only a man. He couldn't see straight through her, no matter that that was how it often seemed. She'd be dead if he could.

It was then that Ren returned from where he'd been seeing to his and Jaime's horses. Morganna immediately rushed forward and flung her arms around him too, and though he seemed initially startled, he soon smiled and hugged her back, before doing the same to Aileen and clapping Edrick on the back. Ross watched their reunion for a moment before turning to the rest of the family.

"Catelyn. You look well," Ned's wife looked the perfect lady, austere and composed, but Ross saw the strain in her face where others wouldn't.

"And you," Catelyn smiled tightly. Ross supposed she had somewhat of a friend in Catelyn now. Somewhat. They had been cold to each other at first, but over the years had grown to get along, at least. Friends were something Ross rarely had, let alone female ones. Her only close female companion had been dead for over fourteen years. "I must say I'm glad you're back. Overseeing a royal visit with just a month in advance was rather... tiring,"

"I can imagine," Ross noticed her goodsister's eyes darting to the side. "Go," She smiled slightly. "I know you've got things to do," Catelyn looked relieved.

"We'll talk later," She agreed. "Children, make your aunt welcome," No mention of their cousin, but that would also explain why Jon Snow wasn't here to greet them. Catelyn Tully made no secret her disdain for bastard children, and for that reason her and Ross would never be close. The woman was dutiful, ladylike and proper to a fault. Sometimes, when she was being particularly irritating, Ross had the urge to snap at her how she had planned to kill her unborn child when she thought it was of Targaryen blood, how she had tried to kill her husband the night before the wedding, how she had fucked the Kingslayer in a crowded castle and actively enjoyed breaking her marriage vows, how she had passed her bastard daughter off as her husband's. She never would say any of that aloud, of course, least of all to Catelyn, but it was amusing to imagine the expression on the woman's face if she ever did.

As Catelyn swept away, barking instructions at a serving boy manhandling an expensive-looking trunk, Ross turned to her nieces and nephews. So much had changed even in four short months. Robb was looking almost a man. Sansa, still a girl but growing to be a beautiful young lady. Arya had changed the least; still a wild little girl, who worried Ned by acting so much like their sister. Bran, sweet and gentle but an inch or so taller. Little Rickon, who had grown the most. Jon, of course, wasn't there. Robb stepped forward, grinning at Ren.

"Gods, you _are_ tall now," He sounded a little envious, and Ren smirked, looking sideways at her.

"No idea where I get it from," Ross raised an eyebrow at him, but that just made him look more amused. She shook her head - there was a time not so long ago when that look would've made his eyes wide and his lips start spilling hasty apologies - but had to smile. She was fairly tall for a woman, but she clearly wasn't where Ren had gotten his height from.

"Look at you, riding with princes and knights," Robb grinned. "Do I call you Ser Snow now, or my Lord?"

"Give it a few months," There was a wicked glint to Ren's eye. "Lord Stark," Robb punched his arm good-naturedly and he laughed.

"Could you beat father in a fight now?" Bran asked eagerly. "Have you slain any villain knights yet?" The boy had always longed to be a knight, and would most likely become a squire himself in the near future with Catelyn's connections in the south.

"Ren could win against any southron flower," Edrick snorted. "What about the Kingslayer?"

"No villain knights," Ren said to Bran, then turned to his brother. "And I haven't beaten Ser Jaime yet, but I could definitely beat a skinny little thing like you," He grinned as the others laughed, and Edrick opened his mouth in outrage; for all Ren joked, his half-brother was not a skinny boy, nor small for his age, big where Ren was lean. The others laughed, all but Sansa, who sniffed. Clearly her fantasies of dashing knights in shining armour were not being lived up to by her bastard cousin.

"Don't be cocky," Ross cut in lightly. "I know you learn from the best, but do try to be selective in what you pick up from Ser Jaime," Gods, good thing Edrick had been the twin...

"I can't believe your the _Kingslayer's_ squire," Bran said enviously.

"Father doesn't like him," Robb reminded her.

"Not many do," Ross said, and Ren gave her an amused look.

"Can _you_ show me how to fight, Ren?" Arya glared at her brother. "I want to learn like the boys, but father says no, and no one else will teach me," Ross knew exactly why Ned said no. Arya was already enough like their sister, though at least she didn't seem to be the secret romantic at heart that Lya had been.

"Could you even lift a sword?" Sansa asked, wrinkling her nose.

"I could lift a bigger one than _you_," That was probably true.

"With those skinny arms?" Edrick teased.

"I'm strong!"

"Whatever you say, Twiggy,"

"Then I'll have a small sword, _stupid_,"

"Stop it," Sansa hissed, eyeing the courtyard nervously. "People are _looking_," Anyone important had all gone inside. Morganna laughed - though they were the same age, her and Sansa had never really got along well (when they were younger, their encounters often ended in Sansa running off to her septa or Lady Catelyn in tears) - whilst Arya pulled a face.

"No they're not," She stopped arguing anyway when Aileen put a hand on her shoulder.

"I've missed this," Ren looked amused. "It's not like this in King's Landing. Fewer wolves," He looked pointedly down at the wolf pups sat at each of the children's feet. Ross had been meaning to ask about them too.

"Yes, where did they all come from?"

"They're direwolves," Arya said proudly. "Robb and Jon found them in the Wolfswood," That was a story in itself, direwolves south of the Wall, in summer too. She must ask Ned about that.

"Their mother was dead," Robb said. "So we took them back. One each,"

"We didn't get one," Morganna didn't sound too concerned. "There's a spare, but it didn't seem to like any of us,"

"Yes, come and see," Ren didn't protest as Arya dragged him away towards the kennels, Bran and Edrick hurrying after them, leaving Ross with Sansa, Morganna and Aileen. Three young ladies, all with Stark blood, but all so very different.

"I must get ready for the feast," Sansa explained herself not going after the others. "Apologies, Auntie," She gave a polite curtsey that even the prissiest southron lady would be proud of and hurried away. Sansa always seemed slightly nervous of her aunt, perhaps because the inane chirping the septa and her mother had drilled into her had never worked on Ross. At times, Ross had had to stop herself disillusioning the girl in all her fantasies of songs and stories; Sansa deserved a childhood, and though Ross didn't agree that keeping her ignorant was a good idea, she was not her mother. As far as Sansa was concerned, Ross had just been a hostage in King's Landing during the rebellion, perhaps sitting sadly in a tower, untouched and lonely like a lady in a song. It didn't even occur to her that anything else might have happened. In real life, ladies like that never stayed untouched.

"Do you need hours to get ready?" She asked her own daughters slightly sardonically. Morganna laughed, showing perfect white teeth, and Aileen smiled slightly.

In the bedchamber she'd slept in since she was a child, Ross looked at her reflection critically in the looking glass on her dressing table. She wasn't a high maintenance woman, and had never been a beauty like the ones of song; that role had gone to her sister, who had been truly stunning, with a daring boldness that caused many to admire her. Ross on the other hand was quieter, and fairly plain - not ugly, but not wildly beautiful like her sister, who had taken after their mother and Brandon - with a sharp chin, long face, long pointed nose and dull steel grey eyes, as well as her tall and flat frame. This used to bother her when she was younger. _The plainer Stark daughter by far, _as Aerys had liked to say. But now Ross was glad she wasn't beautiful. Her sister had been, and she had taken after the beauties of legend in more than looks; she had the tragic tale, too.

She finished arranging her hair into a northern style - no intricate braids in sight, with most of her long hair remaining down, a small plait running down the back - and put in a pair of elegant jet earrings, matching her necklace. That night her bodice was black, fairly high necked as always, and her skirts were a dark forest green. The lacing was at the back, but she was used to lacing up her own clothes so managed it easily enough. There were plenty of handmaids that could assist her in dressing, but that just reminded her of all the times Aerys had her dress up like a doll, all in purple, only to rip her clothes off later.

"Does the spare wolf have a name?" Ross asked Morganna, sat next on the edge of the bed swinging her legs, dressed in a fine blue and silver gown and with her hair done like Ross'. Her youngest daughter was beautiful. Incredibly beautiful, almost as much as a young Cersei Lannister. She'd have to keep her away from the queen and Myrcella tonight.

"I call him Crow," The girl shrugged. Ross smiled. "Arya said the name was stupid. She's called her wolf _Nymeria_ so I don't know what she's laughing about. But Crow's stuck now, the kennel boys won't call him anything else,"

"Nymeria's the name of a warrior queen," Aileen was brushing her long black hair, and gave her sister a flat look. Her gown was simple, in Bolton pink and Stark grey, but pretty nonetheless. She was a little less skinny than Ross had been at that age, shorter too, and the majority of her features came from the Boltons, aside from her nose, which unfortunately was Ross'. "Crow is named after a bird,"

"It's not as bad as _Shaggydog_, though," Morganna grinned, and Aileen had to smile. "Rickon's wolf," She explained to Ross. There was a short pause, then Morganna's grinned bared a few more of her teeth. "Lizzie Lewis was looking forward to seeing Ren again,"

"I'm sure," Ross murmured. She hadn't even thought about that girl. Lizzie Lewis was the daughter of one of the washerwomen in the castle laundry, and Ren had been close friends with her since he had visited Winterfell when they were young children. The girl was fifteen now, but was already growing a reputation, many muttering that she would surely end up in a whorehouse. Ross disliked talk like that, but she couldn't deny that the rumours had some weight to them; the girl was pretty - with curly brown hair, ice blue eyes and high cheekbones - and vivacious, but was the biggest flirt Ross had ever seen, and certainly dressed to best show off her growing woman's figure. Gods, knowing what Ren and Loreon were like in King's Landing - the two were both handsome, could be very charming when they wanted and didn't usually have to visit a brothel to find a girl (her son thought she didn't know of his activities; as if, she just ignored them) - she didn't need to imagine where he'd be spending the night.

Ross and her daughters made it to the feast in good time. Ross entered after the King and his family had been escorted in by Ned and his trueborn children; Joffrey with Sansa, poor blessedly ignorant girl, Myrcella with Robb, Arya with Tommen then Bran and Rickon, who lingered at the lower tables and had to be ushered on by Jon Snow. Ross had to smile as Tyrion Lannister was escorted in on the arm of Morganna, who looked fascinated by the dwarf; she was glad to see Tyrion was conversing with her daughter with amusement and good humour, but slightly wary of him figuring out the resemblance between the girl and his elder brother. Aileen entered with Edrick. As for Ross, Jaime was the only one left - it would've been absurd to have her walk with Tyrion, she was five foot eight - and was waiting for her, offering his arm and a polite greeting, though he smirked at her as they followed the others into the great hall.

Ren was sat down with Jon Snow and Loreon Storm, amongst the rest. Of course Lizzie Lewis was a serving maid that night, laughing and busying herself with filling Ren's glass as he smirked at something she said. Ross let go of Jaime and took her own place at the high table next to Catelyn; on her goodsister's other side sat the queen, smiling coldly as ever, stoically ignoring her husband.

The feast was... a feast. The usual. Lots of food, lots of drinking, lots of talking, lots of laughter. Ross never particularly enjoyed feasts much, and would rather have spent more time with her children, Ned or Jaime. That wasn't possible, however. She spoke with Catelyn for the most part, and Cersei a little as well, although the queen spent much of the time pretending things were fine as Robert blatantly groped several different serving girls. As the hours wore on, she talked with Benjen, who was visiting from the Wall; her younger brother had been at there since he was fifteen, and she had seen him only a handful of times since. He definitely acted older than when she had last seen him. The slightly reserved but essentially good humoured man he was now was far from the eager little boy trailing after his siblings who he had once been.

Late into the feast, she saw Jon leave the hall looking angry and red faced amidst a small gale of laughter from where he'd been sat. She was glad to see that Ren - a dark direwolf pup darting around his ankles - got up to follow him outside; the two boys understood each other more than the other children, who couldn't know what it was like to be a bastard. Catelyn treated Jon terribly; though Ross had little say in that, she had made it very clear that Ren was not to be treated as such in her family home. At the Dreadfort, and particularly in King's Landing, things were worse. Ren had had to grow a thick skin to deal with the sorry excuses for people there. Loreon was somewhat helpful in that regard as, even if he wasn't the King's son, they dared not say anything to his face simply because he had always been large and muscular boy, where her son had been as tall and thin as a beanpole. Although even since her last visit, Ross had noticed people start to take care not to insult Ren to his face too, especially after the memorable occasion she herself had caught him forcing another squire's head into the wall, twisting his arm behind his back and threatening him rather too well for it to have been his first time. She had raised an eyebrow and asked what Ren thought was doing; apparently the boy had been laughing about the fact that any number of Targaryen guardsmen could be Ren's father. The little sympathy she had for him vanished on the spot, and she had left her son to it.

She cast a look down the table. Jaime was sat beside his nephew, Joffrey. Jaime and Cersei both looked glad not to sit together. The golden Lannister twins had getting more and more cold to one another ever since the rebellion, arguing several months before the Riverrun tourney eleven years ago and then separating permanently some time last year for a reason Jaime still hadn't told her. Ross wasn't sorry for her loss. Jaime was better off without Cersei hissing in his ear, trying to control him. It went without saying that he was also better off without his sister warming his bed, no matter how beautiful said sister was.

She saw Jaime watching Morganna laughing with her brother (who had returned several minutes ago to find his brother and sisters come down from the high table) and Loreon, a faint smile on his face as he saw her sneak a gulp of Jon's leftover drink, which Ren caught her at and rightly moved away. Ross felt a stab of panic in her stomach at the attention Jaime was giving her, but then felt like groaning as she watched Ren grin wickedly and pull a laughing Lizzie Lewis into his lap whilst ignoring hoots from Loreon, Edrick (who had made his way down from the high table) and others around them. Jaime turned to Ross, smirking and catching her eye briefly with a look she knew, before looking away. Ross waited a minute or so then politely made her excuses to Catelyn and the disinterested queen, saying that she was exhausted from weeks of travel and needed to retire for the night, not having any wish to watch a washerwoman's daughter drape herself over her son. She bade goodnight to Ned, asked Robert for leave, which he granted with a drunken wave of his hand, before slipping out of the hall and back to her room. Jaime would follow, after some time. He knew the way; she'd told him in detail.

Ross waited for twenty minutes, stood by the open window looking out at the night. When she heard the door open, she didn't look around right away. She felt strong hands on shoulders, but they trailed down to her waist to begin to slowly undo the laces of her dress. As the material gaped open, he turned her around to face him and kissed her deeply, slipping a hand into the open back of her gown and drawing her close. The room was dimly lit by the few candles that remained burning, dark enough for them to be invisible to anyone who might be outside but enough light to be able to faintly see each other.

Having spent three weeks on the road, with very limited opportunities to be this intimate, both of them more than made the most of the time they had. After, Ross pulled on her nightclothes, which Jaime protested at until he realised how cold it was outside the bed with the window open and redressed himself. They both stood side by side facing the window, his arm round her waist, the candles blown out and practically the whole castle asleep.

"I can't stay," He reminded her. She leaned her head to rest against his shoulder.

"I know,"

He stayed anyway, for better or worse. Once they were lying together in the bed she'd had since she was a child, he turned onto his side to face her.

"Who's the girl Ren was with?" He sounded amused.

"A washerwoman's daughter," Ross sighed. "They've been friends since they were children. And haven't seen each other in two years, so don't expect him early tomorrow," Jaime chuckled.

"I can't decide whether Giana's boy is the bad influence on him or if it's the other way around,"

"I think they're both as bad as each other,"

"Ah, it's not a problem," Jaime shifted onto his back, drawing her close with an arm. "He's young, let him enjoy himself," The fact that he was years younger than Ren when he'd started sleeping with Cersei went unsaid. "Now here's a frightening thought. We met when we were his age,"

"Don't," Ross shook her head, as he smirked. "What a pair we were. The arrogant young knight with a pretty face - "

"Pretty," He said scornfully. She gave a small laugh, moving in his arms.

"I remember you at fifteen," A smile played at her lips. "With blonde hair to your shoulders and wide green eyes that hadn't seen the world yet,"

"And what of you?" She could hear the smirk in his tone. "All spindly arms and legs like a colt, wearing the stoniest expression I ever saw outside a statue,"

"That never changed," She lay her head on his chest, looking up at him, and he laughed. "And you never did cut your hair," She ran her fingers through the golden mane, her tone mocking. "Those curls wouldn't look out of place on a blushing maiden fair," She couldn't keep a straight face; the thought was laughable.

"Does that make you the bear?" Jaime asked innocently, and she hit his chest indignantly. He laughed. "No, I suppose not. You hit like a maiden fair,"

"If it's a bear you want, that can be arranged,"

"A she-wolf is quite enough, my lady, trust me,"

Shuffling away from him - she didn't like sleeping in anyone's arms, she got too hot - and blowing out the last flickering candle, closing her eyes.

_Drip... Drip... Drip... Hands, she must clean her hands. Dripping, they were, with dark, thick blood, into the cold basin, staining everything it touched. More blood flowed through her fingers, a never-ending, immovable stream, down her wrists, staining the white sleeves of her nightdress. But he was going to take her away from her child, her handsome boy, take her and use her and force her, like the Mad King. Aerys! Aerys, Aerys, here... No, he was dead. She'd stood over the body. Kicked it. Opened its eyes just for the satisfaction. But he was here. It was undoubtedly the Targaryen, bearing down upon her with a skeleton's grinning teeth, purple eyes glowing, silver hair hanging in long rats tails, his frightful face leering, getting closer, six inch nails scratching down her skin, tearing at her flesh, no matter how she screamed inside. He laughed and laughed, high and cackling, she plunged a dagger into his chest again and again and he laughed harder, the shade of the Mad King melting into becoming her husband on his back, her suddenly over him now, with staring pale eyes the colour of her dress, ghostly and accusing, dead lips softly whispering promises of fire and blood, as his own spilled over her hands. She looked up, saw her reflection in the mirror. Drip. Drip. Drip. Blood in the basin. She looked like a corpse again but worse hollow black eye sockets, cold white skin, her dress stained red, hands slick from the dagger. Then it changed, and it was Ren, dead in the mirror, Aileen, Edrick, Morganna, Ned, Benjen, Jaime next to him, all grinning ghoulishly, hideously, dead. Golden hair matted red. Shades appeared behind her and she spun around, three dark figures, Brandon, Father, Lya, flat stares accusing, judging, reaching out towards her with grasping fingers. Her lips parted in an anguished scream, everything melted to black - _

Ross awoke with a slight gasp, sweating. She breathed heavily, taking a few moments to convince herself it was a dream. _But some of it had been real_. The memories of Aerys definitely were. It was still late, still night. On the other side of the bed, facing away, Jaime didn't stir. She didn't want to close her eyes again. She hadn't had a dream like that in months. They had become less frequent over the years, but never stopped entirely.

She stayed awake, staring at the dark window until the sun rose hours later.


	11. Agreement Unspoken

Jaime wasn't in his room that morning. This was fairly common, so Ren waited, completing as many of his duties as he could in the meantime. He didn't have many; considering he was the former heir of the richest family in Westeros, Jaime Lannister required surprisingly little looking after. The man wasn't what Ren had expected, nor was he who Ren had expected to squire for when he and his mother had left Winterfell for King's Landing. He was near certain that Jaime was indeed his father, no other explanation made sense. It wasn't just the fact they looked somewhat similar if you paid attention. The way his mother acted around him was proof enough. To anyone who didn't know her well it would be unnoticeable, but Ren caught the looks they exchanged, the smiles she sometimes sent him, how there was a level of familiarity between them that went beyond mere friends. He supposed the fact he knew would have to stay a secret. Things were fine the way they were.

Jaime returned soon enough. He didn't say where he'd been - he never did - and Ren didn't ask. He could guess, though. He bet his mother hadn't been up early either.

"Enjoy the feast last night?" Ren asked him. Jaime laughed.

"Something like that," Ren fought the urge to grimace. "What about you?" He looked up to see Jaime smirking at him. "With your pretty little serving wench?" His smile faded.

"I'd drunk too much," He said flatly. "Nothing happened," Jaime raised an eyebrow, but Ren said nothing. He was lying, of course. Lizzie had been his first, two years ago when he'd last visited Winterfell, and they'd been friends long before that. It didn't seem right discussing her like a whore. With any other girl, he'd have been laughing with Loreon or Jaime over details already, but not with Lizzie.

"She seemed to like you," Jaime's tone was deliberately light.

"That she does," He couldn't help but say, and Jaime met his eyes with an amused look.

Ren didn't see Lizzie that morning, though he wouldn't say he was looking for her. Judging from the amount he'd seen her drink, she was probably nursing a pounding headache. After breakfast, he was surprised to see the spare direwolf pup - the kennel boys had been calling him Crow in his absence, which seemed to have stuck, as the black wolf wouldn't answer to anything else - waiting for him outside the armoury. It had tagged along with him after the children had shown him the pups the previous night, but he had assumed it was following the group. Few people were around now, so he let the wolf trot along at his heels as he met Jaime for their usual training routine. The yard was deserted at this hour, most of the castle still at breakfast or in bed. A few servants milled around, but most of them were too busy to pay much more attention than some curious glances. Crow sat a short distance away, watching intently.

"Good," Jaime muttered as Ren deflected a particularly difficult blow. He had yet to disarm the man, one of the best swords in Westeros - when Jaime fought with his right hand, that is - but he was improving at a considerable rate. It was in his blood, he supposed.

"Stop," He backed off at Jaime's order. "You need to be quicker with that downwards parry or I could open up your stomach before you get the blade down. Try it again,"

This fight was fiercer. He could see Jaime's grin grow as he successfully blocked with the move he'd been lacking in, carrying on and returning it with one of his own that almost - _almost_ \- caught Jaime by surprise. At this the grin was replaced by a smirk and his moves became more ferocious. Ren answered with a quick succession of complicated blows, succeeding in driving Jaime back a few steps before the knight responded in kind, using all the tricks and skills he'd taught Ren with before, which, to both of their satisfaction, Ren knew exactly how to block. It was hard to tell how long their fight lasted, but it ended as it always did, with Jaime's sword at his throat. It remained there for a few seconds, both of them breathing heavily, before Jaime lowered it.

"Don't let this go to your head," He gave him a sideways look. "But I do believe you're getting quite good at this," He paused. "You could teach Joffrey a thing or ten," Joffrey had hated him ever since Ren had been drafted in as the prince's sparring partner for a short time when he was twelve; having beaten him every single time, he was soon traded for someone more likely to let Joffrey win. He preferred Tommen, much more.

"Bastards don't spar with princes," Ren shrugged. Jaime grimaced.

"No," He agreed. "They don't," There was a short silence. "Are your cousins any good? Your brother?"

"They all are," Ren said. "Jon's talented with a sword, but he won't be allowed, obviously. Robb's almost as good a swordsman, but he's a better lance. Edrick's just as good as Robb despite being younger, mostly due to pure stubbornness. Your nephew will have to watch himself. Prince or not, my brother won't take kindly to him if he acts like he normally does,"

"My nephew," There was a strange look on Jaime's face. "Why am I not proud?"

"They'll have trouble with the other two," Ren said. "Robert'll let Loreon spar, just not with Joffrey, he's more than good. And Tommen's not bad for his age," Tommen, though he hadn't entirely shed that slight childhood plumpness yet, was decent with a sword. He would never be a prodigy, and disliked violence of any kind, but was very diligent and didn't give up easily, which counted for something.

"He shouldn't be bad," Jaime frowned. "You know I hold no love for Robert Baratheon, but before drink, gluttony and my sisters got to him, he always was good in a fight. It makes sense for at least one of his sons to be the same," His expression suddenly lightened. "Now, let's see if you can beat me wrong-handed," That was something they had included in their training sessions almost from the first. Jaime, amused by his new left-handed squire, had wanted to see if the then ten year old Ren could beat him if they both fought with their left hands. He had. Outraged, Jaime had then set out to learn to fight with his left hand as well as he fought with his right, which had been a harder process than he had expected, as though the reflexes were still there, they were wired to position the right hand to fight and the left to shield; unlearning that was more complicated than simply swapping hands. But Jaime had managed it, and though his left hand was not near as good as his right, he was a far better than average swordsman even when fighting wrong-handed. When it came to a fight between Jaime using his left and Ren using his right, Jaime tended to be the victor.

Later, Ren sat on a windowsill in the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep, leaning against the wall. This seemed to be where the bastards of Winterfell came to commiserate; Jon was there, one leg drawn up to his chin and wore a solemn expression. Morganna sat between them, leaning against Ren's legs as they all watched the activities below; she was meant to be sewing with the other young ladies and Sansa and Arya's Septa, but hadn't wanted to go, so didn't. Crow, who seemed to have decided he belonged to Ren, and Jon's wolf Ghost were content to sit beneath them.

"This is shit," Ren watched the other boys sparring under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrik. It was torture just watching, not being able to do anything. Loreon was showing off, as ever, having beaten Robb, Edrick and Theon Greyjoy in quick succession, before having a go with Tommen, then Bran to humour him (he'd done better than expected). They'd all taken it well though, laughing and clapping each other on the back. Tommen had fought them all too, and though he had lost most of the matches - except one against Robb, one against Edrick and all but one against Bran - he had taken it with good grace and an easy smile. Now Joffrey, a blond boy of thirteen, had just been beaten by Robb and had declared the victory unfair, retreating back to the protection of the Hound. Gods, he was a cunt; the secret knowledge he was Ren's cousin only made it worse. It was safe to say that the heir to the Iron Throne and Rosennis Stark's bastard loathed each other, but Joffrey never dared to do more than verbally belittle him - fear of his father caused that, the king was fond of Ren's mother - which Ren could make himself ignore. He had perfected the disdainful look his mother used, the one that made the person on the receiving end feel like a childish piece of shit. It also helped that could beat Joffrey in a fight blindfolded with his good hand tied behind his back. Which made it all the more agonising that he could do no more than watch now.

"That's how it is," Jon's said dull. Loreon was now stepping forward to fight Edrick again. He couldn't have been more different to Joffrey if he tried, and not only in looks. Maybe that was why he was Robert's favourite; Joffrey was tall, but Loreon was taller, with the same muscular build the King had had in his youth, as well as his fighting prowess. He shared the dark hair, blue eyes and handsome looks of his father too, unlike his half-brother. Joffrey - his twin Myrcella and Tommen too - looked all Lannister, blond haired and green eyes, and Joffrey could scarcely swing a sword.

"He's good," Ren said of his friend, having wanted to prove the point earlier, and though Jon didn't take his eyes off the fight he knew he was listening.

"He is strong," Jon acknowledged non-committedly. Edrick - who did learn quickly, and was faring much better than the last round - took a very sharp swipe at Loreon that by all rights should've disarmed him, but he nimbly sidestepped and returned with a strong blow of his own. Jon looked impressed. "And quick. Very quick. How, with that huge sword?"

"That's nothing," Ren smirked. "You should see the greatsword he has back in King's Landing, I can barely lift it. He wasn't Barristan Selmy's squire for nothing," Jon's eyes widened.

"He was _his_ squire?" His cousin looked impressed. "Why not his uncle? I mean, I know there's you, but..."

"They fight completely differently, it wouldn't work," Jon frowned so he elaborated. "_I_ fight like Jaime Lannister. I can't rely on brute strength I don't have. Loreon has a different build and a different mindset - he's fast, but he _can_ count on strength to win. He wouldn't suit how Jaime taught me," Jon nodded in understanding.

A while later they heard the padding of six feet come down the corridor, and Ren looked up to see Arya and her direwolf, Nymeria, approaching. Jon, as absorbed as he was, didn't notice until their wolves jumped up to greet their littermate, and gave Arya a curious look.

"Shouldn't you be working on your stitches, little sister?" Morganna snorted at that.

"And looking after the princess," Ren added, glancing at his sister; Lady Catelyn had told her daughters to befriend Myrcella - Sansa would love to, and Aileen would sit in the room at least - but Ren privately thought Arya and Morganna were more likely to tear the dainty Myrcella apart; he rarely interacted with Joffrey's twin, but she seemed the perfect lady. Morganna was a wolf in lady's clothing, whilst Arya didn't even bother with the disguise. The girl made a face.

"I wanted to see them fight,"

"Good girl," Ren said. Jon smiled.

"Come here, then," Arya scrambled up to sit between them, squashing up beside Morganna, who protested a little but budged up to make room. It was still Edrick sparring with Loreon, a match that had been going for a while, yet the spectators were still calling out various encouragements.

"A shade more exhausting than needlework," Jon observed, as the round continued. Edrick looked exhausted - but was too stubborn to yield - and even Loreon looked to be getting tired, having been fighting almost nonstop.

"A shade more fun than needlework," Arya shot back. Morganna grinned. Jon grinned, reached over and messed up her hair even as Arya flushed.

"Why aren't you down in the yard?" She asked him. Ren looked at Jon.

"Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes," Jon explained.

"Oh," Arya looked a little guilty. She eyed her brothers down below. "I could do just as good as Bran," Ren didn't doubt that.

"You're too skinny," Jon took her arm to feel her muscle, shaking his head. "I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one," His words were oddly similar to Sansa's the other night. Arya snatched her arm back, glaring at him. Jon messed up her hair again and Ren thought she might hit him, but they fell into a comfortable silence.

"Look at Prince Joffrey," Morganna said scornfully. Ren agreed. The Prince lounged against the wall, surrounded by all his lackeys, a lot of the younger squires of Lannister and Baratheon knights, and several knights and guardsmen themselves. The Hound, of course, was present. "He didn't like Robb beating him earlier, so claimed it was an unfair win," Arya wrinkled her nose.

"What a baby," She said. "I could definitely do better than _him_,"

"I won't deny that," Ren snorted.

"Look at the arms on his surcoat," Jon pointed out the crowned stag of House Baratheon and the lion of Lannister. "The Lannisters are proud," Jon was disapproving. "You'd think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother's House equal in honour to the King's,"

"The woman is important too!" Arya protested.

"Not that woman," Ren muttered. He'd seen the true colours of beautiful Queen Cersei - _his aunt_ \- when he'd been around Loreon. Jon chuckled.

"Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister," He suggested to Arya. "Wed Tully to Stark in your arms,"

"A wolf with a fish in its mouth?" Arya laughed. "That would look silly. Besides, if a girl can't fight, why should she have a coat of arms?"

"Girls get the arms but not the swords," Jon shrugged. "Bastards get the swords but not the arms," Arya scowled, and Jon smiled faintly at her.

"I did not make the rules, little sister," Below, Loreon had beaten Edrick after a long fight, and both were grinning and shaking hands.

"Well fought," Ser Rodrik marched up. "Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armour." He looked around. "Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?"

"This should be good," Ren muttered. Arya's eyes were wide with anticipation. Robb moved forward eagerly. Joffrey, however, lazily got up, feigning an air of haughty boredom but not doing nearly as good a job of it as his uncle could.

"This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik," He said disdainfully.

"You are children," Theon snorted.

"Robb may be a child," Joffrey, who was a year younger, said. "I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword,"

"Little bastard," Ren remarked lightly, making the girls laugh and Jon smile. He saw Loreon eyeing his half-brother with dislike, but wisely keeping out of it as Tommen edged closer to him. Joffrey and his mother loathed Loreon enough as it was; everyone knew the only reason Loreon had survived a month in the Red Keep was that his mother was a Lannister and Lord Tywin - the king, too - would have the head of anyone who touched him, bastard or not.

"You just don't want to be beaten again," Edrick heckled from where he was being helped out of his armour, earning laughs from the Stark men watching. Arya and Morganna laughed. Loreon too looked amused. Joffrey did not.

"If Stark had fought fairly - "

"You got more swats than you gave, Joff, there's the truth of it," Robb said good naturedly, grinning. "Are you afraid?"

"Oh, terrified," Joffrey sneered at him. "You're so much older." Some of the Lannister men laughed as Ren shook his head, Jon frowning beside him.

"Little shit," Jon agreed.

"What are you suggesting?" Ser Rodrik tugged at his beard, eyeing the prince.

"Live steel," Ren laughed lightly, shaking his head at Joffrey's request.

"Do it, Robb, teach him a lesson," Edrick was as scrappy as ever.

"Where's Aileen?" Morganna asked. "Edrick's not as much of a prat with her around,"

"Done," Robb shot back, angry now. "You'll be sorry!"

"This isn't going to end well," Ren pushed himself off the windowsill. The four of them ran, direwolves at their heels, the short distance to the yard, to see that despite being offered tourney swords, Joffrey still insisted on live steel.

"Oh look," Joffrey looked up as they emerged. "It's Winterfell's bastards. Such a shame you can't join us. If only you were allowed," Jon took on a dark expression and Robb and Edrick protested angrily, but Loreon said nothing.

"The girls are trueborn," Ren said mildly, nudging a scowling Arya - shorter than Morganna by a head - forward. "I'm sure Lady Arya would make a worthy opponent for you if you'd rather not fight her brothers, my Prince," The Stark men roared with laughter, Loreon grinned at him and Ren smiled with a cruel edge as Joffrey flushed in anger and eyed him maliciously. Ren gave him the Look. Joffrey glared but backed down, knowing Ren shared his mother's sharp tongue and doubtless remembering the times he'd been humiliated before in front of others for picking a war of words. Instead, he looked to the Hound.

"This is your prince," The huge man stepped forward, speaking to Ser Rodrik. "Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?"

"Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it," Ser Rodrik's face was stern.

"Are you training women here?" Clegane asked.

"I am training knights," Ser Rodrik said. "They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age,"

"How old are you, boy?" The Hound turned to Robb.

"Fourteen,"

"I killed a man at twelve," He said bluntly. "You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword," Robb bristled and turned on Ser Rodrik.

"Let me do it," Robb said lowly. "I can beat him,"

"You'd like to see that as much as we do," Edrick.

"Beat him with a tourney blade, then," Ser Rodrik said flatly.

"Robb, leave it," Ren advised. As much as he would enjoy the sight, it wasn't worth the trouble. Joffrey shrugged infuriatingly.

"Come and see me when you're older, Stark," He started to wander away. "If you're not too old," There was laughter from the Lannister men and the Stark boys' equally furious curses rang through the yard. Arya covered her mouth in shock and Morganna's eyes widened. Jon and Theon seized Robb's arm to keep him away from the prince, whilst Ren, Arya and Morganna grabbed the angrier Edrick.

"Come, Tommen," Joffrey feigned a yawn and turned to his younger brother with a smirk. Ren raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "The hour of play is done. Let us leave the children to their frolics," His words brought more laughter from the Lannisters and more curses from the Starks, but Tommen didn't move from Loreon's side, looking embarrassed, even slightly angry. Good, he'd finally grown a backbone. Ser Rodrik's face was red with rage and it was all they could do to hold Robb and Edrick back. Loreon looked irritated but did nothing, except clap Tommen on the shoulder.

Despite this, Ren thought the danger had passed. It would have, too, had Joffrey not dared to make one more comment, this time addressed to him personally.

"I was trying _not_ to judge House Stark by the standards of you and your whore mother, bastard, but it seems in that I was sadly mistaken," This was nothing Ren wasn't used to from the boy, but he made the mistake of stepping forward to give a sharp retort, awaiting the amusing purple colour the Prince turned when humiliated. Edrick took the opportunity to lunge at Joffrey, spitting with fury. It appeared that he wrenched out of his captor's grip, but Ren saw a faint smile on his little sister's face. _She'd let him go_.

"Fuck," Ren sprinted forward as his brother threw himself at Joffrey, knocking him to the floor and punching every bit of him he could reach. The prince was wailing, getting in a few weak hits but doing nothing against his stronger attacker. Ren sadly couldn't allow himself to enjoy the glorious scene, and as the first to reach the pair he quickly pulled Edrick off, slapping him hard around the face to snap him out of it. His brother was breathing heavily, face still flushed, so angry that he was shaking. Arya joined them, looking more excited than anything and grinning at Joffrey. The prince had been dragged to his feet by an unsympathetic Hound and gracelessly dumped him into the arms of his cooing lackeys, then the man marched over to their group, sword drawn.

"Fucking brilliant, Bolton, well done," Ren heard Theon mutter as Robb and Jon stiffened, wordlessly shoving the girls behind them. Ren caught Loreon's eye - his friend had stepped forward - and shook his head. Loreon fell back.

"Now that," The Hound leered unpleasantly at Edrick as he neared. "Was a direct attack on the heir to the throne. That's treason,"

"He's twelve," Ren stepped up next to Robb and drew his own sword to face Clegane. He had spoken with him on occasion, sparred often, and was probably as friendly with him as the surly man got with anyone, but he knew that counted for nothing. "He wasn't thinking," The man looked amused at the sight.

"Put that down, boy, before you take someone's eye out,"

"And let you take mine out for me?" Clegane laughed at that but didn't deny it.

"Kill him!" Joffrey had recovered enough to screech across the yard. Ren was satisfied to see the prince had a bruised face, a black eye, a split lip and his fine clothes were torn and dirty. "How dare he attack me! Hound, I command you tear his head off and stick it on a spike on the battlements. His dirty bastard cousin too," Your_ dirty bastard cousin, too_. Clegane raised a pointed eyebrow at Ren, darkly amused. The man might be disdainful of Joffrey's behaviour, but he still did his bidding. He stepped forward, and Ren did too.

Their swords met in a clang of steel as Robb shouted in alarm. Ren didn't think the Hound would kill him, not just on Joffrey's orders, but he wasn't entirely sure. Somehow this didn't scare him; it made him feel more alive than ever. The Hound was a savage fighter, far less graceful than Jaime but stronger, more vicious and scarily fast, easily one of the most skilled people he had fought. But Ren kept up with him, moving instinctively. There wasn't time to be scared, only time to react. He was dimly aware of shouting in the background, men trying to break up the fight, but none were successful until a third sword came into the fray, getting in between them easily. This, as well as a loud shout, broke them apart.

"STOP!" They sprung apart as King Robert bellowed at them as he crossed the yard. "What in the seven hells is this?" Behind him, Ren's uncle followed, less imposing but just as intimidating in his anger. Jaime stood between Ren and the Hound, sword warningly between them. Ren let his sword fall to his side as did Clegane. Jaime gave him a sharp look. Asking if he was alright. Ren nodded, once. He was still buzzing with adrenaline, blood pounding in his ears.

"That lowborn northern savage _attacked_ me!" Joffrey was spitting, jabbing a finger at Edrick, who glowered indignantly. "I want him flogged! I want him _dead_! I want him hung from his own battlements - "

"_Enough_," Robert, though fat, still had the thunderous voice of the rebellion leader he had been. _Ours is the fury indeed_. "Ned, explain the behaviour of the Bolton boy and how in the name of the Gods it ended in the Hound fighting your nephew," Ren's uncle shook his head.

"Edrick's behaviour is inexcusable," He spoke in the cold voice of Lord Stark, showing he was truly furious. Edrick hung his head. "I had expected better from my sister's son," Ren suspected their mother would take Edrick's side in this - Joffrey had called her a whore, after all, and she wasn't the forgiving type - though it could go either way in public. "As to an explanation, your Grace, I know as little as you. Ser Rodrik, explain,"

"Yes, my Lord," Ser Rodrik stepped in quickly. "Your Grace, there was a... disagreement. Prince Joffrey felt that our current activities were for children and wanted to fight with live steel. I offered tourney swords on the grounds live steel would be too dangerous - "

"Damned right!" Robert interrupted, with a glare at his son. "You are the heir to the Iron Throne, gods help us all. Are you a lackwit, boy?" Joffrey flushed even more, about to speak. "_Don't_ say a word,"

"Set Rodrik, continue," At his uncle's prompting, Rodrik carried on.

"The Prince was, ah, unhappy with this," He hesitated slightly. "He started... goading Robb, with taunts, I can only assume trying to provoke him into a fight. My Lord, your son and nephew kept their restraint well enough, however the last remark was enough to goad Edrick into attacking,"

"And what was this last remark?"

"It was..." Rodrik looked uneasy. "It was regarding your sister, my Lord, Edrick's mother. Lady Rosennis. It - it implied certain unpleasant things about her honour," Ren's uncle's expression grew even more grim, however this didn't seem to be directed at his nephew.

"You would insult the sister of your host in his own home?" Robert bellowed at Joffrey. Ned placed a steadying hand on his arm and focused back on Edrick.

"However much you were provoked, there is no excuse for attacking a Prince," Ren's uncle spoke in a steady voice but with a steely note underneath that promised dire consequences. It was hard to make Eddard Stark even that obviously angry, and Edrick clearly knew this too as he faltered, but then his angry expression returned and he glared at Joffrey.

"That doesn't explain this," Robert waved a hand at Ren. "How did a _squire_ end up set against Clegane?"

"Ren was protecting me," Edrick said without hesitation.

"Edrick - " Ren warned, but was interrupted by the King.

"From the _Hound_?"

"Joffrey told him to cut off my head," Edrick glared again at the boy. "And Ren's too. You heard him. And he went to do it! If Ren hadn't fought him, he would've, I know it!"

"Is this true?" His uncle asked Ren sharply.

"To a point," He said carefully. "I don't think he would have actually _killed_ anyone," Clegane snorted but didn't disagree.

"But you attacked them nonetheless," The Hound shrugged.

"I follow orders,"

"Seven fucking hells, Clegane," Robert groaned. "Joffrey is a boy, a foolish one at that. He has no right to order an execution, let alone that of a lord's son!"

"I do what I'm told," The Hound said, unconcerned, earning him Ned Stark's glare. "And I felt like a good fight," Robert sighed heavily.

"Ned, this can't go unpunished," The way he spoke, it was like the whole thing was too much bother. "I know my son can be a cunt, but your boy _did_ attack a prince. Just - oh I don't know, you think of something suitable. Punish him as you see fit. Joffrey, for gods sake go find the Maester before your mother sees you. Now if that's all sorted, I've got lunch to get back to,"

"What about him?" Joffrey said petulantly, pointing at Ren. "He deserves punishment," For what, exactly, Ren wasn't sure. Robert looked exasperated, just wanting the whole thing to be over with.

"Kingslayer!" He waved impatiently, and Ren bit back a grin. "He's your squire, punish him if you want but I really couldn't care less. Now, anyone else disturbs me before I've eaten and I'll have them in the stocks for a week - that includes the queen!" And with that, the King of the Seven Kingdoms went back into the keep, followed by his guards, Joffrey and his lackeys. Loreon went with them, leaving only Stark men and Jaime in the yard. There was a heavy, icy silence.

"Uncle, I'm sorry - " Edrick started, but Ned cut him off with a look.

"Go to your chambers and stay there until I come for you," Ren's uncle's voice was icy. Edrick made to protest but his father raised an eyebrow. "_Now_," He went.

"You can't punish Edrick, father," Arya stepped forward. "Joffrey said awful things, and he's a craven, and a liar! He deserved - "

"Arya," Ned's voice was still cold. "Get back to Septa Mordane. You shouldn't even be here. Morganna, go with her," His tone left no room for argument. Arya found some anyway.

"I hate needlework!" The girl protested, but under her father's stern stare she relented and stormed inside grumbling about unfairness. Morganna and the she-wolf followed with somewhat more grace, with a glance back at Ren.

"Jon, Robb," Ned turned to the two. "You can go. Thank you for trying," Casting a regretful look at Ren, Robb left, followed by Jon, Grey Wind and Ghost. Then his uncle finally turned to him.

"Ren, I have to - " He was interrupted.

"Lord Stark, I do believe the king deemed Ren's punishment to be my responsibility," Jaime stepped forward, a hint of a threat in his voice, placing a hand on Ren's shoulder. His uncle didn't visibly react, but Ren could tell this angered him. Then something seemed to change in his expression as he looked between Ren and Jaime.

"Aye, he did," He seemed almost... resigned. Jaime nodded in acknowledgement. "You've more right than I," Ren felt Jaime's hand on his shoulder tense, and there was a moment where the two men held eye contact for longer than could be deemed normal. _Did that mean he knew..?_ Then his uncle stepped back. "Lannister,"

"Stark," His uncle returned to the castle, and Jaime led him away.

"_Am_ I getting a punishment?" He turned to Jaime curiously.

"Of course," Jaime said. "You can polish my boots for tomorrow," Ren turned to him.

"I was meant to do that anyway,"

"Ah well. Now," Jaime smirked slightly. "Are you going to tell your mother you got into a fight with Sandor Clegane and your brother attacked a prince, or are you going to let her find out herself?"

"Fuck," Ren felt like groaning. Jaime gave a short laugh. "Can't you do it?" The knight scoffed.

"Think of _that_ as your punishment," There was a pause. "What did Joffrey say about her?" He spoke lightly.

"I can repeat it word for word," Ren said dully. "'I was trying not to judge House Stark by you or your whore mother, bastard, but it seems I was mistaken'," Jaime said nothing and his expression didn't change. They continued to walk, then he abruptly broke the silence.

"What do you think about being a bastard?" This was the first time Jaime had ever asked him anything like that.

"Probably similar to what you think about being a Kingslayer," Ren was a little surprised by the question. Jaime wasn't normally one to dwell on things like that. "It is what it is, and there's no changing it. Let people say what they will. I don't care what they think, or let them think that at least. I know I can beat any of them into the dirt any day," Jaime grinned at that, his agreement unspoken, and Ren smiled faintly.

"Ren," Ren turned around as his name was called, and Jaime stopped. Aileen was coming towards them, looking harried. "What happened? Edrick's shut up in his rooms nursing a bloody lip, and Lord Stark's furious," He didn't miss how Jaime eyed his half-sister, almost appraisingly. He wondered what it was like to look upon the child of your lover and another man. Though Aileen was black-haired and pale eyed, rather shorter too, and looked little like their mother.

"He attacked Joffrey," His sister nodded in understanding.

"He probably deserved it," Jaime laughed at that, and Aileen looked at him. "Beg pardons, Ser," She didn't try to deny her statement, nor did she sound all that sorry, merely spoke neutrally. Jaime waved a hand in dismissal, and she turned back to Ren with a raised eyebrow.

"He insulted Robb," He said in explanation. "And called Mother a whore," Aileen's eyes narrowed; the words of agreement, that she doubtlessly felt, didn't need to be said.

"I'll go and sit with him," She didn't saying goodbye before she hurried off. Unlike Morgana, who knew social graces and tended to ignore them, Aileen had never bothered to learn them, preferring to spend her time with her nose buried in a book. Ren hoped it would serve her better than empty courtesies and pretty words.


	12. Harridan

Ross entered her brother's solar without knocking, first thing after breakfast that morning. She never would have dreamed of doing the same thing when the room belonged to their father - she would have gotten a switched hand for her lack of manners - but Ned was Ned, not her father. She walked inside, to see Ned stood at his desk, alone, looking more solemn than ever.

"Robert asked you to be Hand of the King?" He nodded tersely, once. "Well I can't say it was a surprise. He spoke of little else to me on the journey north," She looked at him. "Are you going to take it?"

"Catelyn wants me to," His own disagreement went unspoken but Ross caught it anyway.

"If you don't want to go, then don't," She said flatly, sitting down in the chair in front of the desk. "You know better than I do that although Robert will rant and rage all he wants, it'll all be forgiven and forgotten in a moons turn, most likely before he returns south," Ned's silence was acknowledgment enough that he knew she was right.

"He's my oldest friend," Her brother sighed instead. "It's my duty to stand with him, especially after Jon's death," He paused. "That's the other issue. Luwin found this in his tower late last night," He nodded to a carved wooden box. Ross eyed it for a moment before reaching to pick it up, turning to Ned with a questioning look.

"Left in his tower?" She raised an eyebrow. "No courier? No note?"

"Nothing. No one even reported seeing a rider," Ned confirmed. "It must've been someone from the royal party. Luwin brought it to me as soon as he found it, knowing no more than we do. See what you think," Ross carefully lifted the lid, frowning at the contents, a single Myrish lens. Removing the lens and placing it on the desk, for those were valuable, she upturned the box, tapping on the other side. "There's a false bottom,"

"There was a note concealed inside," Ned's expression was grim. "Bearing the Arryn seal. It was from the Lady Lysa, Cat's sister," Ross knew Lysa Arryn all too well, but listened in silence, and he continued. "Written in a secret language they'd made up as children. It said that Jon Arryn was murdered,"

"That's... not impossible," Ross said slowly. His sudden descent from perfect health - for a man his age, anyway - to dead had happened rather quickly, and the Hand of the King was never without enemies. "Did it say who?"

"The Lannisters," Her brother's voice was cold. "The queen," There was a long pause.

"I met Lady Arryn in King's Landing," Ross said eventually. "She's impulsive, soft, weak-willed, easily impressionable and foolish,"

"Don't say that in front of Cat," Ned gave the ghost of a smile, and Ross pulled a face.

"It's true. Her son is six, yet she barely lets him out of her sight - she still suckles the boy," Her expression bespoke her distaste. "And he is the most vile, spoilt child I have ever laid eyes on, save perhaps the crown prince," She thought hard. None of it made sense. "But the woman can't be mad with grief. She had no love at all for her husband, she wouldn't care if he lived or died. But then that raises the question as to why she'd bother writing to Catelyn at all. Perhaps she feels threatened too, and it's self-preservation," She broke, looking at her brother. "You've already made up your mind, haven't you?"

"Even after the letter, I'd much rather avoid that viper's nest of a city," He admitted, turning to glance out the open window. "But it was something Catelyn said... Robert is as good as my brother, and I cannot leave him to the dogs,"

"Catelyn," Ross said, rather sourly. This was another reason why her and her goodsister had never quite been friends. For all her time as Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn still didn't understand the north, and she was far too full of southron ambitions. "Has she forgotten your _real_ brother died in that city? And Father," Her eyes flashed. "I haven't. I was there to watch, and I can still see it in my head as though it was yesterday. Starks don't do well in the south, Ned, you know that,"

"I hadn't forgotten," He said with some bitterness. "For all I dislike Jaime Lannister, he gave the Mad King a quick death. Aerys Targaryen didn't suffer enough for what he did,"

"No," Ross agreed. "He did not," She didn't miss the way Ned looked at her at the mention of Jaime, but he didn't know the half of it. He didn't know about the many times Jaime had held her as she broke down in his arms, her battered, bleeding body aching, unable to rid the feeling of Targaryen hands from her no matter how many baths she took. "I can't stop you going," She shrugged, which was true, even if she'd rather he stayed. "But who goes with you?"

"Cat will stay here," That surprised her. Catelyn must hate that, being left here even after she persuaded her husband to finally go south. "Robb will need her to help him rule in my stead. Bran, Sansa and Arya will come with me. You can too, if you like. Perhaps bring Morganna and the twins?"

"No," She said after thinking for a moment. "I think it would be best if I stayed here. The twins wouldn't want to go, anyway," Morganna would, but she of all of them would definitely not be going; she was the main reason Ross was staying in the North. It would be nice, to spend more time with Ren - and Jaime - but if she went, there would be no reasonable reason for her daughter not to go with her, and she couldn't have that.

"If you're sure,"

"I can always join you later. But Ned," She made sure to look him in the eye. "Be careful,"

"I promise," He smiled faintly.

Ross walked back through the castle with an odd feeling of foreboding hanging over her. She ended up in the Godswood, taking a seat in the roots of the weirwood as she had many times as girl, idly letting her foot hang loose, the toes of her boots rippling the surface of the pool beneath it.

It seemed like everyone was to leave. But this was only the start. Sansa, Arya, Aileen and Morganna would soon be married. Bran and Jon would likely have keeps of their own, she knew of Ned and Benjen's plans to repopulate the New Gift. Edrick would most likely serve his half-brother Domeric in the Dreadfort. Gods knows what would happen to Ren. One day, only Robb would remain in Winterfell. It seemed so certain, so unshakable. Everything could change, though, she knew that well enough. Her own brother Brandon was meant to be Lord of Winterfell, with Catelyn Tully his wife. Lyanna was meant to be the lady of Storm's End. Benjen was meant to stay at home. Ned should have married someone like Barbrey Ryswell. Ross should be a dutiful, honest lady wife with four trueborn children, not two.

For better or worse, things had changed.

_"Come _on_, Ross!" Nine year old Lyanna said impatiently, stopping to wait for her sister, who was older by a year. Ross was never as fast as Lyanna. With her gawky, skinny frame - as tall as her elder brother Ned, but half as broad, for which her siblings laughed at her and called her Spider - she wasn't built for speed. On foot anyway. When she rode, she flew. Lyanna did too._

_"I'm coming," Ross frowned, picking her way through the deep snowdrifts. Even under the trees of the godswood, the snowdrifts were thick and deep. The bottom of her dress was soaking wet, and the cold winter chill was blowing right through her despite the many layers of warm clothing she was bundled up in. She didn't mind the cold though. Winter was what she knew. It made her blood race, and her eyes bright. She had been born at the start of a four year winter, and it had been winter now since she was seven. The howling winds, the driving snow, the bitter cold, all of it was what she was used to as a child of winter._

_"You're so slow," Lyanna groaned, kicking the snow at her feet. "It's only snow," There was a difference between the sisters. The cold didn't bother Ross, but that didn't mean she wasn't wary of it. She remembered being a little girl watching as a group of weary travellers had staggered into the castle gates. Despite being hardy men of the north, well prepared for the ferocity of winter, they had been caught out in a sudden snowstorm and their fingers, noses, ears and feet were all black and withered with frostbite, and two of the party had later died, unable to get warm even when out of the snow and wrapped up by the fire. Winter was here, and the Starks were prepared, but that didn't mean it wasn't deadly. To Lyanna, on the other hand, it was all just a game. The dangerous, the frightening, the cold, she threw caution to the wind with it all and scorned any who didn't. Ross wondered if she would be better off doing the same, freeing her mind of worries, constraints and pressures like her younger sister, but she never could._

_"I'm going to the stables," Ross said. "I said I would help Hullen get a halter on Brown Bess' foal," The young horse was a chestnut filly, very well bred to be a fine courser, but was completely wild, barely allowing anyone near it, much unlike her docile dam. Ross was good with horses; they seemed to respond well to her whispers of the Old Tongue, learnt from an old woman from Wintertown whose mother, rumour had it, had been a Wildling._

_"No, stay and fight with me! Or let's go riding," Lyanna pulled a face. "Hullen can do the halter himself. It's boring,"_

_"For you," Ross changed direction and heading towards the stables. _

_"Fine," Lyanna stuck her tongue out at her. Ross ignored it, used to her sister's changing moods. She'd forget about it in an hour or so and they'd be best friends again. "But when I can show off how well I fight in front of handsome Southron knights, they'll pay me all the attention, not you," _

_"Southron knights don't like women who can fight," Ross smiled. Everyone knew that. "No men do. They want to be the big, strong ones protecting their gentle lady,"_

_"I will protect myself!" Lyanna claimed boldly, stick in the air like a victory sword. _

_"With what?" Ross laughed. "A crooked twig?" With that she turned and left. _

Ross smiled somewhat sadly. Her little sister was one of a kind. There had only been a year between them, but Ross had always felt so much older. Lyanna had been full of dreams, full of desires. She had wanted the world and was confused when she couldn't get it, but never stopped trying. Ross had always been too realistic for anything like that, a child decades older than her age even before Aerys had destroyed any hint of idealistic notions she may have had. Her father had often sighed wearily after dealing with the troublesome Lyanna, and called Ross his only sane daughter. Even though she wasn't as beautiful, she was the one everyone expected to make a nice sensible marriage to a good northern husband, act as a dutiful daughter should, unlike her rebellious sister. The world didn't work like that, though. No one would have expected that _Ross_ be the one to return home in disgrace with a bastard son. If only they knew the truth about Morganna. Her father would be turning in his grave. Lyanna would've forced the truth from her, somehow, then told Brandon, who would've gone and removed Jaime Lannister's head. Aerys' too, had Jaime not managed to do it himself. Ned respected her and her privacy too much to force any more answers from her about her treatment at Aerys' hands, and Benjen had followed his example and never spoken of it. It was better that way. The Mad King was dead, telling them more would achieve nothing.

Ross thought back to how envious of Lyanna she had been as a girl. They had nearly always been with each other, galloping recklessly through the Wolfswood more often than not, though Ross had always been jealous. She wished she could charm those who talked to her like her confident sister could. She wished she could be as beautiful as Lyanna. She wished she could be as bold, not doing anything she didn't want to and defying anyone who tried to say otherwise. She'd stopped being jealous when she realised that if she had been Lyanna in Aerys' court, she would've died long ago. Keeping her head down whilst burning anger festered inside was the only thing that kept her alive there. That and Jaime. She bit back at a laugh at the thought of Jaime facing her sister instead of her all those years ago, then realised that Cersei was all those things Lyanna was too; charming, beautiful, bold, defiant. How he had gone from his stunning sister to her, she didn't know.

She returned to the castle after who knows how long. It was easy to lose track of time in the godswood.

"Mother!" She started slightly as Morganna came hurrying around the corner. Her daughter was out of breath slightly, and grinning widely. "You'll never guess what just happened,"

"What is it?" She grabbed the girl's arm. Anything Morganna was this excited about couldn't be good. She had a habit of not taking things seriously that really should have been.

"Edrick beat up that stuck up Prince Joffrey," Her daughter crowed proudly. Ross felt like cursing. Joffrey was an arse, and surely deserved it, but this was more trouble than it was worth.

"Gods sake," She turned around in a whirl of dark skirts, not letting go of Morganna's arm, tugging her daughter along at her fast walk. "Why? No, how badly?" She didn't need to ask who had come out worse in that fight.

"Oh, he's fine, though he wailed enough that you'd think Edrick flayed his face instead of just punching it," _You're not a Bolton, don't talk like one_. Morganna rolled her eyes, clearly thinking Ross was overreacting, trying to tug her arm free but giving up after testing her mother's iron grip. "Some scrapes and bruises, a black eye and a split lip, if that. It's not like Edrick knocked his teeth out, though he should have done," Her youngest daughter tossed her hair defiantly. "He insulted Robb, then called you a whore in front of the whole yard," Ross gave a dry laugh.

"I could tell him things about his mother that would make his ears shrivel up,"

"Like what?" Morganna asked innocently, and Ross gave her a look. She laughed. "It was worth a try," She paused. "Oh, and Ren fought the Hound,"

"He _what_?"

"After Edrick hit him, Joffrey ordered him to take his head," Morganna chattered away as though she was speaking of the weather. "Ren held him off until the king and Uncle Ned arrived,"

Ross was silent. There wasn't much to say to that. Even Morganna seemed to pick up on her black mood, and fell silent too. Servants and guards alike hastened to move out of her way as she swept through the halls, and the Winterfell guards outside her son's door opened it wordlessly upon seeing her face, closing it behind her. Morganna waited outside. Edrick stood when she entered, proud and wild as ever, as tall as she was, fiery and ready to argue. But one look from his mother made him falter like he was only a little boy again, and he sat down on his bed with a glower. Ross never raised her voice to any of her children, but she'd been assured that her low, harsh tone was terrifying enough. She disliked children as a rule; her own, her brother's and Domeric Bolton were the exceptions. Most children tended to find her frightening even if she wasn't angry; Tommen Baratheon hadn't been able to meet her eyes for more than a second when Ren had introduced them back in King's Landing.

"What in hells name were you thinking?" She asked her son lowly.

"Didn't Morganna tell you what he said?" His eyes flashed, reminding her too much of Brandon. "He called you a whore in front of the whole yard! This was after he already insulted Robb, Jon and Ren," He began to pace, clearly not any less angry at the prince, even over an hour later. "You understand, don't you? Surely you hate him as much as I do?"

"I understand you wanting to beat him," She agreed, in the same tone. "I understand you wanting to hurt him. What I don't understand is why you were so incredibly stupid as to actually do it," He opened his mouth, but she cut him off sharply. "I have no doubts that he deserved it. If it was my decision, I'd have left you to it and walk away scot free. But it's not up to me," He fell into a sullen silence. "Best hope I can persuade Cersei Lannister not to take your right hand for daring to use it on her precious little prince,"

"She wouldn't actually - "

"Probably not," Ross ignored the cynicism. "But there will be a punishment. I'll try and make it as mild as I can, but don't expect much," She went to leave, but paused at the door. "Oh, and Edrick?" He looked up. "Thank you. But if you try to kill everyone who calls me a whore, you'll be more infamous than the Smiling Knight. And your grandmother would have to be first on the list," He gave a choked sort of laugh, but she was already gone.

* * *

"_You_," Cersei swept towards her, eyes alive with cold fury. Ross stood her ground. She had just left Ned and Catelyn, whilst there was no sign of Robert. "Are you aware your son attacked the heir to the Iron Throne not two hours ago?" To Ross, it seemed like it would be far easier to go with the queen rather than against her, letting her think she was getting what she wanted rather than opposing her directly.

"I have dealt with Edrick," She looked down at the queen. She was two inches taller than Cersei, much to her satisfaction now. "He is now under no doubt whatsoever as to the severity of his actions, and will offer a personal apology to the prince as soon as Joffrey wishes to receive him," As soon as Joffrey stops threatening to see his head on the battlements, she meant. Anticipating Cersei's angry retort, she quickly continued. "As further punishment, my son will remain confined to his rooms for the remainder of the royal visit. He will take his meals there, and be forbidden all non-essential visitors, including his cousins and siblings. I assure you, for a boy like Edrick, being confined to his rooms is the worst punishment I could give. He'd just shrug off a beating," Cersei glared, still angry but looked at least slightly mollified.

"And what of the marks he left on the prince?"

"I can show you Edrick's hands if it pleases you," Ross didn't miss a beat. "I am not above using a switch on my children to punish foolish misbehaviour," _If only you had used one on Joffrey_. Cersei's eyes shone with vindictive satisfaction at that, and Ross knew she had won. The queen would hardly ask to see her son's hands if Rosennis Stark had claimed to have caned him herself. She hadn't, of course. Joffrey deserved what he got. Edrick would, however, be staying confined in his rooms. There was no way around that.

"See that the boy troubles my son no further," A clear threat. Ross nodded sharply.

"Your grace," The queen swept from the room, presumably back to her son, who was no doubt milking his minor injuries for all they were worth.

* * *

Ross' way back took her through the quiet part of the castle, then past the washhouse, built over the hottest part of the hot springs under the castle. Women walked in and out through the steaming door where the hot air met the cold outside, carrying huge baskets of linens and various garments. But there was a man there too, Ross noticed, talking to a girl. No, not a man she realised. Her son, talking to Lizzie Lewis. Ross didn't miss the envious looks many of the younger girls were giving Lizzie, nor did she miss how Lizzie rested her hand on Ren's arm as she laughed. Ross got close enough to hear their conversation.

"You could be a handmaid," Ren was saying, Ross' own smile playing at his lips. He smiled like Jaime when he was trying, and like her when he wasn't.

"Who to?" Lizzie laughed. "The girls are too young aren't they, and as for your mother..." She trailed off. "I don't think she wants one," Ren laughed.

"Sansa's eleven," He pointed out. "It wouldn't be unusual, especially in the South," Lizzie considered this, unsure. "It's that, the kitchens, the washhouse, or a brothel - "

"You talk to Lady Sansa about me being her maid," Lizzie said decisively, and Ren grinned. "What do I have to do?"

"Don't ask me," He shrugged. "The handmaids in King's Landing are always talking about dresses and hair,"

"And what do you know about the handmaids in King's Landing, Snow?" The girl was smirking.

"Too much," Ren said flatly, and she laughed, shaking her head and going in to kiss him, but Ren had spotted Ross and moved an arm out to stop her. "Mother," Lizzie immediately shrank back, looking a little apprehensive but trying to hide it by ducking her head.

"Pardons, milord, milady," She muttered, giving a clumsy curtsey before gathering up her basket of bedlinen. Ross watched her go, then turned to her son.

"You're bringing her south," It wasn't a question.

"I am," He said. She raised an eyebrow.

"Do I want to know why?"

"Lizzie has been my friend for years," He glared at her a little. "So I'm getting her a good position in the household. Better than being a kitchen wench her whole life,"

"Not the one she wants," Ross muttered. _No, that's underneath you_. It was Ren's turn to raise an eyebrow, and she smiled slightly apologetically. "Sansa will need a handmaid when they all leave. I'll add your _friend_," She gave a pointed look. "To the accounts,"

"You're not going back south?" He paused at her sharp look; manners. "_Thank you, _Mother. But why?" His eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

"I have spent enough time in the Red Keep to last a lifetime," That was true enough. "But enough of that. I hear you fought the Hound," His lips curled into a wry smile.

"I was hoping to avoid you long enough that you've already spoken to Edrick?"

"Yes," She folded her arms. "But don't think by any means that I've exhausted myself," He just laughed, the insolent boy.

"You say that like it was my fault,"

* * *

Several days after the memorable incident between Edrick and Joffrey, Ross could be found - not exactly unusually - in the stables, saddling her young horse for a ride. Both her daughters were going with her, and she had, as usual, refused Ned's offer of a guard with the fair excuse she always used; _they wouldn't be able to keep up_. Morganna rode a rather stocky dun horse from the Winterfell stables as her own had thrown a shoe, whilst Aileen was on her usual grey. The girls' hardy mounts were rather more suitable for riding in the Wolfswood than Ross' own, who was long and slender of leg, skittish and not quite as well-balanced with a rider yet as it could be. Hopefully today would help change that. Or send them both crashing to the floor in a mass of broken limbs after tripping over a root.

No such incident occurred, however, and the further away they got from the crowded castle and the king's men, the more Ross relaxed. Winterfell was large, but so was the number of people staying there. She disliked having eyes everywhere. Even when she wasn't doing something she shouldn't, it discomforted her to constantly have others around, particularly in her home. The freedom of unlimited space, largely uninhabited once they were past the land directly around Winterfell, was a wonderful thing. Her mare was wild at first, but after a good long gallop - after which she had to wait for the girls to catch up on their heavier horses - and several flying bucks, she had calmed to merely frisky. The riding was good around the Dreadfort - with wide, open moorland, the striking gorge of the Weeping Water or even going up to the Lonely Hills if she wanted a long ride - but it wasn't quite like galloping through the Wolfswood like she had done throughout her childhood.

It was an hour or so into the ride that Morganna trotted up beside her, with a look in her grey eyes that promised Ross wouldn't like what she had to say.

"Mother," Ross could tell from her tone alone that she was building up to asking a favour. "You know I've been spending lots of time with Princess Myrcella recently?" In the days since the fight, the children had been under stricter rules, meaning Morganna had had to attend her lessons and entertain the princess and other ladies. Somehow, the two had taken a shine to each other. It was an odd pairing if ever Ross saw one. She had barely spent any time with Myrcella, but from what she could tell the girl was a perfect lady, dainty, courteous and charming, but with little else going on inside that pretty blonde head. Much like Sansa; Ross would've thought the two would get along well. That they had, but somehow her daughter - irreverent, downright sly and often rude with that sharp tongue of hers - had managed to become the princess' favourite. Which was worrying. The longer the two girls spent together, the more likely it was that someone would notice they looked alike. Ross had tried keeping them apart as much as possible, but there was only so much she could do without making people suspicious.

"Yes," She said neutrally, but wary inside. Aileen too had looked up, but not in interest; she clearly knew what this was already. Ross raised an eyebrow at her but she only shook her head slightly, so turned back to Morganna. "Why?"

"Well a few days ago, we were talking about marriages," Morganna somehow said with a straight face. Ross' eyebrow climbed even higher. The girl had never shown an interest in a husband her life. In boys, yes, that was one of the few things she had come across her daughter talking about with Sansa given how uninterested Aileen and Arya were, but marriage? Definitely not. "Cella said that in King's Landing it's much easier to find a husband than here in the north,"

"Easier to find a _southron_ husband," Ross said pointedly. "Your father would not allow that,"

"Well, yes," Morganna shrugged casually, but Ross could almost see the whirring in her head, changing tactics fast. "It's not like I'm looking for one. But there's a lot more going on in the south, she said. It must be exciting to live there - "

"If you want to go to King's Landing, why don't you just ask?" Ross looked at her daughter warningly.

"Because I know what the answer will be," She grinned, unperturbed. "I was just testing the waters,"

"If you already know, why bother?" Ross frowned - it wasn't like she was known for ever going back on what she'd already refused, particularly with her children - then she saw Aileen's rather strained expression. _Oh, of course_. A nasty feeling gripped her stomach, and her tone was steely cold when she spoke next. "I'm not the first person you asked, am I?"

"You're the first person _I've_ asked, technically," Morganna had the decency to look at least a little sheepish at that, but the grin never went away. "But Myrcella went to the queen yesterday. She's going to ask you officially tonight, for me to be one of Myrcella's companions in King's Landing. It's a great honour," She added, rather hopefully. They were too far away to be back at Winterfell any longer than an hour before the evening meal started, even if Ross pushed herself and the horses. That was a deliberate move, so she couldn't rush back and attempt to stop the offer being made publicly.

Ross loved all her children, and always would. However sometimes, she did not like them.

The little harridan thought that Ross could not and would not refuse the queen's explicit, public offer. In any other circumstances, she couldn't have been more wrong; Ross did not care for insulting Cersei, nor for embarrassing her daughter for being a wilful little fool. And she wanted nothing more than to keep her away from King's Landing and the Lannisters for her whole life. Morganna had asked to go with her to the city before, to see Ren, and she had always refused. Being there for any amount of time was a risk. Anyone, anytime may eventually make the connection between how alike her daughter looked to the princess and queen, to Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard, and that's when rumours started. In which case, they shouldn't even bother returning north, for her husband would see them both dead, and possibly Ren too for good measure.

But the sinking realisation was coming to her. Ross realised that she had to let Morganna go. The invitation was indeed an honour, for any girl, and refusing it would spark too many questions. Refusing made it look like she had something to hide. Gossip was dangerous, especially when people started speculating amongst themselves, and the last thing she wanted was for gossip about her daughter regarding Princess Myrcella. Her husband would be suspicious too, as to why she hadn't let Morganna go when she clearly wanted to, and if he started investigating they were both as good as dead again.

She couldn't win, it was a choice of the lesser of two evils. She would have to let the blasted girl have her way, even though whatever she did would likely mean the downfall them all.

"You have no idea what you've done," She said coldly to her daughter, her temper rising when the girl failed to look anything less than pleased with herself.

Ross said absolutely nothing else for the remainder of the ride. Any attempts Morganna made at conversation were ignored, and her icy stare was like to freeze the path ahead of them. Unfortunately, her daughter was one of only a few people who didn't seem put off by that stare, and it took longer than she'd hoped - and only after Aileen muttered something in her ear - for the girl to get the hint and stop talking. They rode through the gates of Winterfell in a heavy silence. She felt ill.

After dismounting, Aileen and Morganna followed her to the stables - Morganna had gone to give her reins to a groom, but a glare from her mother had made her reconsider - and Ross stood before her daughter. The girl would probably end up as tall as she was, but for now she was eleven, a child. _Just a child, gods, I can't send her off into that snake's pit. I can't leave her there, not like I was left. She doesn't know what she's walking into, stupid, stupid, _reckless_ girl_. Ross hadn't been this angry in what seemed like years, so furious she could barely speak.

"Aileen," She muttered tersely, and the girl nodded, leaving quickly. She turned to her younger daughter. "Hold out your hand," Her voice was cold, deadly serious, and Morganna looked at her incredulously.

"Mother, I'm not six - " One raised eyebrow made her cut off, and, scowling, the girl held out her palm. Ross brought her own down upon it in a stinging slap. Morganna didn't wince, meeting her eyes fiercely. She grabbed both her daughter's wrists, holding them tightly in front of her.

"Don't think you're clever for doing this," She said in that same hard, furious tone. "Or that you've won, by any means. I might have lost, but you haven't won either,"

"Why are you worrying so much?" Morganna was angry herself, struggling to snatch her wrists back but Ross held them tight. "It's not like when you were there. There's no war. No Targaryens. No Mad King. You're being paranoid," For a moment - one very brief moment - Ross considered telling her daughter exactly why she didn't want her going south, just to see the look on her face.

"You have no idea," She said lowly instead. "No _idea_ what that place is like. It is evil to the core, no matter who sits the Iron Throne. I am well aware you think I am being unreasonable, that you believe you're old enough to deal with whatever life throws your way. Perhaps you are, you're hardly Sansa. Shall we find out? I thought the same as you once, yet I can also tell you exactly how and when Aerys Targaryen raped me, if you like?" Her daughter's face blanched; she had never told her that before. Ren knew, surely, but she doubted even the twins did. "No? Did you think I was treated as a noble guest, by the madman that burned your grandfather with wildfire?" Morganna's mouth was pressed into a line, all traces of smiles gone.

"I - I didn't know," She muttered. "Did - didn't anyone do anything?" Ross looked her straight in the eye.

"The Kingsguard stood outside and guarded the door," She said bluntly. The girl's eyes widened, in shock then in anger, but Ross was done. "That is what that place is like. People do terrible things, and hide behind noble reasons. It flourished under Aerys, but don't by any means think it's gone away. Go south if you like, you made well sure I can do nothing to stop it. But don't _ever_ ask me again why I worry," With that, she turned on her heel and left, skirts sweeping along the dirty floor, not looking back at her daughter.

It wasn't a lie, she told herself. She was worried about the nature of the people in the city, yes, but there were people like that everywhere. Ideally, she wouldn't have really even wanted Aileen going south, for the reasons she had listed to Morganna, but wouldn't have stopped her if she wanted to go, and her younger sister wasn't an issue. Things _were_ different to when Aerys was alive. The core was still rotten, dangerous, but that was safer than the days when the king got hard from burning people alive. And Ned would be there, and half the household guard. She blinked back the tears forming in her eyes, which never fell. Hopefully that speech would have disturbed Morganna into being on her guard, not that that would be enough. All she could hope was that people would be too caught up in themselves, and not looking for the secret cousin of the royal children, to notice. Or that Ned would get sick of doing Robert's job for him and return north in several months before anything dreadful happened.

"Ross?" She hadn't realised she had been making her way to the lord's solar. The door was open, and he saw her there. "Are you alright?"

"Morganna's going south," Her voice was hollow. She came in, sitting down in the chair in front of his desk without invitation.

"Since when?"

"Since she got her little princess to ask the queen if Morganna could be another of her companions,"

"She didn't ask you first?" Her brother frowned.

"She knew I'd say no," Ross felt the tears rising again and furiously blinked; what was wrong with her? She never cried, not throughout the entire rebellion, not until the day Ned brought Lyanna's bones through the city gates.

"Whilst she shouldn't have been so wilful," He started slowly. "Would it be such a bad thing?"

"Don't you remember what happened to me in that city?" That sounded empty and unreasonable even to her own ears. Ned raised an eyebrow but didn't push that point.

"You can refuse the queen," He suggested. "You were staying just the other day that I could refuse Robert, and this isn't nearly such an insult," She just shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, and he eyed her with growing concern. "You're not worried about offending Cersei Lannister, are you?" He sounded slightly incredulous.

"I couldn't give two shits," Ross snorted. "I just - " Her voice caught. "I just can't say no," Before she knew it, tears were falling down her cheeks, much to her embarrassment, and Ned had risen hastily from his chair, moving over to her and placing an arm around her shoulder. "She's going to die," She mumbled before she could stop it spilling from her lips. "She's going to die, Ned,"

"Why would she die?" He frowned. "Ross, you're not thinking straight. Robert is king. I'm his Hand. Half the Stark household guard will be there. She'll be with my children, as safe as she is here,"

"She's going to die," Was all she could choke out. "And me, when he finds out," _Stop talking_, her mind screamed, and she did, settling for shaking with silent sobs, but it was too late.

"When who - " He broke off, and she could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. There was a pause, and she knew he'd got it when he stepped back, removing his arm. "Ross, please tell me this isn't what I think," He must've already had suspicions, if he worked it out that quickly.

"What do you want me to say?" She shook her head. "Don't make me lie to you, Ned, not you too,"

"I knew about Ren," He said, voice and expression stony. "I had wondered from that first day after Robert took the throne. You told me he wasn't Aerys', and I believed you. Of course that left the question of whose was he. I considered the Kingslayer, I'd be a fool not to," She almost flinched to hear him say it out loud. "But it could have been anyone. Then there was Riverrun. I didn't see you together at all then, but I didn't see much of you, either. Morganna was born shortly after that tourney, wasn't she," It wasn't a question. For once, she couldn't read her brother's tone. He could have been judgemental, concerned, angry or indifferent for all she knew.

"Again, what do you want me to say?" Her tears had stopped now, and she got to her feet to face him. "Do you want me to tell you how I fucked Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer you despise so much, not just once to make Ren, but over a hundred times in King's Landing. And again, when I next saw him at Riverrun. One of those made Morganna," He gave a sharp inhale, and she stopped, half in shock at what she'd said, half resigned. He knew anyway. "He doesn't know about Morganna, you know," She continued. "As far as he's concerned, she's as Bolton as the twins. Though he's probably worked it out by now too, if you fucking have," She looked at him sharply. "As far as you're concerned, she's as Bolton as the twins, unless you want to be sent back my flayed skin made into a cloak,"

"You think I'd tell the world?" Ned looked angry now. "Have you so little trust in my loyalty to my family?"

"I have no idea," She said, a little sardonically. "I've never told you the Kingslayer, who you hate, fathered two of my children before," There was a pause. "How did you know about Ren?"

"It's not that obvious," He said. "It was when he took him on as a squire. The day before we left, I saw them fighting together. They didn't - and don't - look especially alike, but alike enough for me at least to see it. I saw you in his features, but I also saw his. I saw Lannister around his previous squire too, at Pyke. Disinterested, that was the only word I'd use to describe his attitude towards the boy. With Ren it was clearly different, even then," Her brother sighed. "I never fully accepted it until the other day, though. There had always been a chance I was wrong before. But when they stood side by side like that in the yard, I couldn't deny it any more," He gave her a hard look. "Ross, why him?" His question caught her off guard.

"_What_?" She blinked incredulously, having been analysing what he was saying to work out if anyone else might be able to see the truth too.

"Why him?" He repeated. "Of all people,"

"Why does that matter?" She gave him an odd look.

"I can understand Ren," He said. "I'd be a hypocrite not to," In all fairness, he'd stopped asking her about the father of her son years before now, given she'd stopped asking about Jon's mother. "But why go back to him years later? You're married. Like you said, it's a risk. Why bother?"

"You think I'm in it for his pretty face?" Ross almost snarled.

"No," He glowered. "Don't put words in my mouth,"

"It was implied," She glared. "You want to know why I went back to him at Riverrun? Because I'd spent the last three years missing him," She was rarely so honest, even with herself. "I enjoyed breaking my vows. My marriage isn't like yours and Catelyn's, Ned. Typically, it's cold and indifferent. At best, we amuse each other. At worst, we've threatened to kill each other," She nearly had, and she often wondered how many plots Bolton had come up with to remove her that he hadn't put into action, or changed his mind about. "But ultimately, neither of us would care if the other lived or died. Wouldn't you want something more than that?"

"Are you saying the Kingslayer actually _cares_ \- " Her brother stopped talking at the icy look she gave him. "Are you saying _you_ care?"

"I do have it in me," She gave a hollow laugh.

"I just..." He seemed lost for words. "I can't think of two more different people,"

"I disliked him at first, arrogant and rude as he was. He thought I was dull. We bonded over a hatred of Aerys Targaryen and a liking for sarcasm," She remembered thinking the first burnings were awful, not knowing that the worst was yet to come. "We're different, but more similar than you'd think. But that's not the problem," They'd got too caught up in this. "The problem is that my daughter, who looks far too similar to Princess Myrcella, is going south to be by her side every day,"

"You can't do anything," He said simply. "She has to come with us now. If we're lucky, no one will notice. It's not that easy to see if you don't know - she's different enough that it's not blindingly obvious - and who would think to suspect?" Ross still felt sick with worry. That was the only thing keeping the horror of her brother knowing near everything at bay. He was right though, she couldn't do anything without making it all even worse.

"We're late for dinner," She noted distantly. Ned shrugged.

"Robert won't mind,"

"Catelyn will want to know where you've been,"

"I won't tell her," He sighed. "I told you to trust me," She just got to her feet and left through the door he held open for her.


	13. The Things We Do For Love

A month. One long, dreary, unbearable month that had felt like a year, locked in his rooms with guards outside. Normally Edrick never spent any time in his room, unless it was to sleep. He spent his mornings training in the yard, a few hours in the afternoon with the Maester and the rest of the time doing whatever he liked about the castle and Wintertown with his cousins and Theon Greyjoy. Being stuck inside all the time made him feel like a caged animal. He was quite probably going mad being confined within the same four walls, all day and all night, for over four weeks. After the initial scolding from his mother, she had tried to ease his punishment as best she could, understanding why he did it but berating his recklessness. Having told the queen she had switched his hands, she had had Aileen bring him his training sword to practice with inside, and let him have visitors if they were discrete, which was better than nothing. But there was little she could do about letting him out.

Today, however, the castle was mostly deserted. Everyone had gone hunting; the king and his men, Uncle Ned and _his_ men, Loreon the king's bastard, Ren, Robb, Theon, Jon, maybe even Bran, and possibly his mother. It seemed like all the men in Winterfell were gone, meaning there were fewer people with the chance of catching him. Edrick had put on the roughspun tunic and breeches of a stable boy and slipped out of the window, climbing down the thick creeper that sprawled up the wall to the ground; he had done this several times, ages ago, just to prove he could, but not being as good a climber as Bran had fallen and fractured his wrist. He hadn't tried it since, until now.

Enjoying the fresh air for a moment, Edrick quickly ducked into a doorway and kept to the shadows as he snuck around, for the most part staying out of sight if he kept his head down, not that there were many people around to see him. He smeared some dirt on his face and rubbed straw in his hair just to make sure. No one would look twice at a grubby stable-boy. Now, where to go now? The downside to everyone being gone was that there was no one to keep him company. He would go and find Aileen if he could, but she and Morganna would be trapped with the other ladies in dull embroidery sessions. Sansa would give him the cold shoulder for attacking her precious prince, if she didn't turn him in to her mother; she had been the only one of his siblings and cousins who hadn't visited him in the last month (even Theon had come twice, and Ren had brought his friend Loreon a few times). Arya would be impossible to find as ever, and she was probably with the other ladies too; her and Morganna had both complained that his fight had made everyone so much stricter, though his sister had stopped complaining after a while and instead started babbling about her new friend the princess. So Edrick was alone. That was fine. At least he was out of that hateful little room.

He ran to the godswood - _gods, it felt incredible to run_ \- as that was the only place where he would be able to practice in secret, out of earshot. None of the southerners dared go in there. However as Edrick moved deeper and deeper into the trees, much to his annoyance he heard the faint murmur of conversation through the undergrowth. Cursing under his breath, he was about to turn around and find somewhere else to go - the First Keep, perhaps, no one would be there - but then he recognised one of the voices.

"I don't like this," His mother was saying. Edrick froze; she might _actually_ cane his hands if she caught him out here where he could be seen. "Ned's place is here, not King's Landing. I'd even rather _you_ were the Hand," Her tone was sarcastic. "Think of the honour,"

"Gods forbid," A man drawled. "It's not an honor I'd want. There's far too much work involved," What was his mother doing out here, alone in this man's company, whoever he was? And why was she talking about Uncle Ned? Edrick inched closer, feet light and almost soundless on the ground. Luckily for him, there was a thick barrier of undergrowth between him and the pair; they were unlikely to see him, unless they got any closer, particularly as covered in dirt as he was. His mother would likely run him through if she caught him eavesdropping on what was clearly a private conversation. Part of him - a part that sounded like Aileen - was saying to turn back and forget this ever happened, but the larger part was telling him to stay and find out what exactly was going on. Something wasn't right here, that was true, but that was the reason he wanted to stay.

Carefully peering through the dense bushes, from what he could see, there were two figures sat side by side on a fallen tree. The thin woman in a dark reddish-brown dress was undoubtedly his mother, but the man's back was to Edrick, face concealed. He had blonde hair, but from this far away that was all he could make out.

"It's not the work that puts you off," His mother said dryly, and the man snorted. There was a pause, and when she next spoke it was almost reluctant. "Ned knows. Everything,"_ Knows what?_

"Is that news?" The man didn't sound surprised, whatever they were talking about. He didn't really sound like he cared. "I thought he'd known for years,"

"He always suspected," He could almost hear his mother's doubtless eye roll. "Ever since he walked into the throne room the day Aerys died, more so after the last visit to the city, but he never _knew._ Not until recently,"

"From the way he looked at me since that day, I thought that was partly because you told him," The man laughed. "So it was just personal hatred all along, then, he didn't even know the worst of it," What they were saying made no sense. There was some big secret, that his uncle may or may not know, and that his mother did not want getting out. Edrick remained more quiet and more still than he could ever remember being. His mother didn't laugh.

"This isn't good, you do realise?"Gods, what was she so scared about people knowing?

"We ought to count ourselves fortunate," The man seemed unconcerned. "If Stark knows, he'll keep it quiet, if he's as like you as you say he is. Others wouldn't. Give me honourable enemies rather than ambitious ones, and I'll sleep more easily by night,"

"Ned is not my enemy, for all that you consider him yours," His mother said sharply. "He's my brother," Well that was a relief. For a moment it had almost sounded like she was plotting a betrayal, not that Edrick believed she would. He was considering just leaving the eavesdropping at that and returning to the castle, before it got even weirder, but what the man said next made him stop in his tracks.

"Who despises me," He said. "Most likely doubly so, now he knows I impregnated his sister then as good as left her to the dogs," Wait... That meant this man was Ren's father! Gods, _no one_ knew that. Now he just had to get a better look. He couldn't exactly go back to his brother and say he'd heard their father but didn't get his name or face. But what was his mother doing still seeing him? She was married to Edrick's own father.

"Neither of us were in any position to do things differently back then, and he would know that," She was saying. There was a pause. "Speaking of ambitious enemies... I have a nasty feeling that before Arryn died he was working with Littlefinger on something. Watch him carefully when you return, just in case,"

"I would sooner watch you," The man said, his smirk audible. "Come here," Edrick hadn't heard anyone talk to his mother like that before. It was utterly disgusting. He had spent enough time around people like Ren, Loreon Storm and Theon Greyjoy, as well as many guardsmen and soldiers, to have some knowledge of certain subjects (Aileen would have laughed and said he eagerly asked about them, but that would be an exaggeration). Either way, he did not ever wish anyone to see his _mother_ in that light. She was always so... dignified. Strict may have been the right word. It was odd, to say the least. Oh gods... The man reached out and took her face in his hands, kissing her thoroughly whilst trying to pull her into his lap. Edrick felt nauseated, averting his eyes, struggling not to burst into the clearing and yell at the man to get his hands off her. Thankfully, after several seconds, his mother shrugged him off.

"We're not done talking," She said, and the man groaned.

"Can't it wait?" She ignored his bored tone.

"Jon Arryn,"

"Not this again," The man sounded weary. "I told you, I had nothing to do with it - "

"I know _you_ didn't," Murder, they were talking about murder, of the Hand nonetheless.

"- and I highly doubt my sister did, either. What reason would she have to murder the Hand of the King? It's not like it would benefit her, it was obvious the next would be Stark, which is certainly no improvement. Father wouldn't waste his time on it. Giana is far away, and would never do anything so like Cersei on principle, and as for my brother..." He laughed. "Arryn was an old man. Old men die every day. No one else is suspicious but his widow, so why are you?"

"He knew something, about you," She said shrewdly. "Something big. I don't know what it was, but it can't have been about Ren," A nasty, knotted feeling was growing in Edrick's stomach, and his whole body felt oddly numb. He couldn't believe his mother would do something like this. Had _been doing_, for years, most likely. "That's not big enough, neither of us are that important for the Hand of the King to get personally involved, not for a bastard born before the end of the rebellion. I saw him with Stannis. _Stannis_. You tell me what was going on there,"

"I swear to you, none of us had nothing to do with his death," The man ignored the rest, clearly humouring her. "What more do you want me to say?"

"Lysa Arryn still claims you did it," His mother sighed. "You as in your family. That's dangerous enough, whether any of you did or not,"

"Lysa Arryn is a mad old sow, grieving for her husband," The man scoffed. "Who would take her seriously? Remember that whole ridiculous fuss over her son?"

"I understand where she was coming from," His mother said, slightly amused. "I would hardly be eager to have your father foster a child of mine. Look at how you four turned out,"

"Mothers," He chuckled, shaking his head. "I think birthing does something to your minds. You are all mad." His mother elbowed the man sharply in the side, making him yelp. "Gods woman, your elbows are sharp. Let Lady Arryn think what she likes. Whatever she knows, whatever she thinks she knows, I was not part of any scheme to kill Jon Arryn, and there can be no proof otherwise,"

"Do you think Robert will require proof to clap you in irons?" His mother asked, a hint of... softness in her voice. _Sickening_. And more than a little strange.

"No," The man admitted a little sourly but then his smirk became audible once again. "But I have you fighting my corner, my lady. I'm fucking the sister of the Hand of the King, that must count for something," His mother made an outraged noise, the man laughed, and Edrick wanted to vomit, or even better, run out there and stab the man in the heart. _You'd better be fucking grateful for what I find out, Ren, I wouldn't sit through this for all the gold in Casterly Rock_. "Besides, Robert fawns over you. Haven't you forgotten you could have been queen?" His tone was deeply sarcastic. That was a joke, it had to be.

"That's not down to Ned," His mother said. "The King still looks at me and sees my sister. Somehow. Having Ned in court will only make it worse. Gods, this is a mess already and no one's even left Winterfell yet,"

"We haven't left the godswood yet," The man murmured, tone changing somewhat. "You should think less about the future and more about the pleasures at hand," His mother snorted.

"Does that line work on all the nice girls?" He laughed.

"Who said you were a nice girl?"

"I'm not a girl for sure, I'm two-and-thirty,"

"And you're not very nice either," Edrick winced.

"You'd know," By the gods...

From that point on, the conversation ceased. Edrick took no joy in spying on his mother and her... dear gods, her _lover_, but he had to see who that man was, who his brother's father was, a man that his own uncle apparently despised, who his mother was seeing behind his father's back. And this was his only chance. Deciding to risk it - both seemed distracted, to say the least - he crept slowly through the bushes, attempting the impossible task of avoiding looking at her, whilst trying to peer at the stranger's face.

He must have made a noise, because his mother's eyes snapped open, straight to the place where he was hidden. She couldn't have known it was him, but she knew that there was someone there, and that was enough. There was one horrible moment where she narrowed her eyes, then she was pushing the man away with hurried hands, wriggling out of his tight grasp.

"Jaime," She muttered tersely. "Jaime, stop, someone's there,"

Everything seemed to happen at once. Once the man - Jaime Lannister, Ren's father was Jaime Lannister, the fucking Kingslayer! - realised where she was looking, he reacted alarmingly fast, leaping to his feet and crossing the clearing to the bushes in several long, swift strides before Edrick could even blink, sword drawn. He realised then that one of the most dangerous men in Westeros was after him and hastily tried to run, but he was in too much of a hurry. He barely made it fifteen metres before he tripped on an exposed tree root, hitting the ground hard. Groaning, Edrick tried to scramble to his feet, but then a strong hand closed around his arm, hauling him roughly to his feet like he weighed nothing, and bending his arm behind his back. He struggled, trying to get away before his mother came and recognised him. The Kingslayer smelled of her; that and the soft, arrogant laugh he gave when his escape attempts were unsuccessful made Edrick brindle with pure rage. _I'd smash your pretty face in if I could, you Lannister bastard_.

"I wouldn't," He felt the cold edge of a lethally sharp sword at his throat, and swallowed, ceasing his struggling. "How old are you, boy?" The question was said lightly enough, but was still somehow menacing.

"Twelve," He more angry than he could ever remember being, but at the same time more scared, though he tried not to show the fear. His mother surely wouldn't let the Kingslayer kill him. But his mother wasn't here. He tried to lunge away, using all his strength, but the man hauled him back, with barely any effort.

"Twelve," Lannister, and the self-loathing in his voice was terrifying. Edrick could feel him tightening his grip, preparing to slice the sword across his throat. "The things I - "

"Edrick!" He had never seen such horror on his mother's face as she finally pushed her way through the bushes, hurrying towards them. "Jaime, stop, stop it, that's my _son_," _Jaime. She calls him Jaime_. After a tense moment, the Kingslayer obliged, letting go and shoving Edrick towards her; he stumbled, and she caught his arm. He didn't move away; his legs felt rather like jelly, his whole body shaking with mixed adrenaline, fury and relief. It took him a few seconds to notice it, but as he looked at his mother he saw she was deathly still. Her face was deathly pale even as she released his arm, drawing her own tightly around her waist in unease. She was scared, he realised, but trying to hide it. Then he saw her bodice was still partly undone and quickly looked away, flushing.

"Alright, see, it's alright," Lannister was saying to her smoothly, but there was a slight strain in his voice that said he was trying to convince himself of that too. His mother only gave him a sharp look; whatever she saw in his face made her mouth set in a hard line.

"Put that away," That look was not to be argued with, and she nodded at the sword, giving the Kingslayer a warning look. Edrick realised the man was eyeing him in a way that uncomfortably reminded him of a cat stalking its prey. Surprisingly, he did as she asked. Edrick stood between the two, in one of the most awkward silences he'd ever had the displeasure of experiencing. _What do you say in a situation like this?_ Jaime Lannister, it seemed, had the perfect - or perhaps not so perfect - answer.

"Ross," _Don't fucking call her that_. He nodded down at her bodice with a small smirk and she cursed him under her breath, fumbling with the laces with still-shaking hands. Lannister watched for a second before apparently taking pity on her, tutting and batting her hands away to do it himself, even as she scowled at him. How he managed to sort that complex tangle, Edrick didn't know. He'd clearly done it many times before. _Bastard_.

"I wasn't spying," Edrick said, to her, not him. The Kingslayer gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

"Weren't you?" His tone was heavy with sarcasm. "Tell me, boy, did you realise it was your own mother you were peeping at just then, or were you enjoying yourself too much?" His smirk cut like a knife. "Or maybe you _did_ realise and continued, regardless if she was family or not,"

"You fucking - " Edrick opened his mouth in outrage, stepping forward angrily, preparing to knock the blonde prick into the dirt like he had done his nephew - _he's twice your size_, Aileen's voice in his head reminded him, _he's got two decades more experience, not to mention he's one of the best swords in Westeros, even Ren can't beat him _\- but as normal when Aileen wasn't there, he waved that part of him down. Only for his mother to cut him off, perhaps for the best.

"You cannot say a _word_ about family," She snapped at Lannister. "Be grateful for the choices you made, this situation could have been a lot more dire for you," The man actually gaped at her for a moment before laughing in incredulity at her nerve at a time like this. Edrick didn't get the joke, nor did it distract from the unpleasant situation at hand. The laughter had a definite air of gallows humour. "What did you hear, Edrick?" She turned to him. He hesitated, unsure, but he couldn't lie to her, she always knew when he tried.

"I heard the Kingslayer is Ren's father," She held his gaze, compelling him to continue. "And even my mother think you killed the Hand. Lord Arryn," He looked accusingly at Lannister, who turned to Ross with a raised eyebrow.

"I suppose you'd be opposed to just throwing him off the battlements and be done with it," He drawled, only sounding half joking. His mother threw the man a dark look.

"Do that and you'll follow him," She didn't sound like she was joking at all. The Kingslayer smirked.

"Well we have a problem then. What do we do?" He shrugged. "The boy will tell someone he believes trustworthy - they won't be - then it'll spread, your brother will kill me, my sister will kill you, the legitimacy of your three trueborn children will forever be in doubt, and our son will forever be known as the Kingslayer's bastard. If he survives my sweet sister, that is, which is about as likely as her husband going celibate," His mother was ominously silent at that. Clearly she agreed.

"What do you mean?" Edrick asked suspiciously. "Why would your sister kill your bastard son?" Bastards couldn't inherit, everyone knew that. Though that didn't stop Lady Catelyn hating Jon. That was different though, Jon was her husband's son, not her brother's.

"Cersei is rather... possessive," Lannister said. His mother snorted. "She had Robert's bastards at the Rock killed, you know. Then sold their mother to slavers. Might be a little tricky to get revenge on a Stark - it was impossible with a Lannister, after all, she still hasn't forgiven Giana for that - but she'd manage it, eventually," Edrick didn't see why the queen would react as badly to her brother's bastard as her husband's, but again, his mother was not disagreeing.

"I won't tell," He eventually turned to his mother, knowing he was making the right decision but feeling somewhat uneasy about it nonetheless. His desire to beat the Kingslayer's pretty face in with a mace was by no means diminished, either. "I can see why it would put us all in danger. Forget the queen, Father would kill you for this alone," By this, he meant seeing the Kingslayer alone in the woods. He hesitated before continuing. "I think you should tell him, though. Ren, I mean,"

"And what good would that do?" Lannister said sardonically.

"I wasn't talking to you," He glowered, and turned to his mother. "He's always been a bastard. People would treat him better if he wasn't,"

"Ren will still be a bastard, even if he knows who his father is," Lannister raised an eyebrow. "He'll never be a Lannister, never be a Stark,"

"Well he deserves to know," Edrick insisted stubbornly. _Who asked you?_

"Gods, you're as stubborn as your mother," Lannister narrowed his eyes. "But at least she has some sense. Ren is my squire. He's better off not knowing, and you'll be better off if you don't tell him,"

"Don't threaten my son," His mother interrupted with a glare. Lannister ignored her.

"Tell me, boy, would _you_ be delighted to find out that I was your father? That the infamous Kingslayer, well regarded as the most dishonourable man in the Seven Kingdoms, fucked your mo - " Edrick threw himself at the man in fury, wanting nothing more than to scratch his eyes - eyes as green as Ren's - out, only to be stopped by his mother hurriedly stepping between them.

"_Enough_," She didn't raise her voice, but it was enough to get them both to fall silent. "_I_ will tell my children, if and when _I_ want to tell them," She turned to him, deadly serious. "Edrick, for whatever love you hold me and your siblings, swear to the Old Gods that you will never breath a word of any of this to anyone unless I tell you otherwise. That includes your father, Aileen, Morganna, Robb, everyone. And don't talk about it with Ned, there's no need,"

"I swear," Edrick said immediately. She nodded, seeming ever so slightly less tense as Lannister snorted, muttering something about the honour of a Stark. _I'm a Bolton_. "Just - can I ask," She raised an eyebrow. "If you hadn't stopped him, he would've run me through with that sword, and you know it. He's a Lannister. An oathbreaker. _Kingslayer_. So why him?" He saw that Lannister, who'd been sneering as he spoke, had fallen silent at this last question.

"Your uncle asked me the same thing," She smiled bleakly. "You didn't even begin to think that the death of Aerys is one of the reasons, did you?" He stared at her. "The sight of the Targaryen king bleeding out on the steps of the Iron Throne was the greatest gift anyone has ever given me," Edrick had no reply to that, remembering with a sinking feeling that his mother had suffered greatly under the Mad King. He wondered, not for the first time, exactly what she'd been through at his hands, and wasn't sure if he even wanted to know. But Jaime Lannister had no reply either, which spoke more than any clever quip he might have come up with.

Edrick merely nodded.

"I won't tell," He repeated. Then turned and walked away, still feeling slightly sick, blood pounding in his ears, louder than the fiercest storm. Neither of them stopped him.

* * *

Bran Stark easily climbed across the rooftops of the castle, as he had done so many times before. He didn't even have to think about it, his body moved instinctively, finding nooks, ridges and holes in the bricks to pull himself up on. He wasn't afraid at all. He had been climbing around this castle since he could walk, and never fell, not ever. He loved the challenge, loved the adrenaline and loved the fact that it was _his_ thing, the thing that he would always be best at. Like Aileen and her books, Ren and his sword, Aunt Ross and her horses.

That day, however, for the first time, he heard voices coming from one of the towers of the First Keep - the one nearest the Broken Tower - as he neared the window. He was so shocked he nearly lost his grip. Only ravens were ever up there, yet this sounded like there were people, two of them.

"I do not like it," A woman was saying. There was a row of windows beneath him, and the voice was drifting out of the last window on this side. "My father should be the Hand."

"Of course," A young male voice replied, eager to please. "Lord Tywin is the only logical choice,"

Bran hung, listening, suddenly afraid to go on. They might glimpse his feet if he tried to swing by.

"Don't you see the danger this puts me in?" The woman said, not seeming to be paying much attention to the other. "Robert loves the man like a brother."

"Surely not," The man said weakly, clearly struggling for a response. "What of Stannis and Renly?"

"Stannis and Renly are one thing, and Eddard Stark is quite another. Robert will listen to Stark. Damn them both,"

The man was silent.

They were talking about Father, Bran realised. He wanted to hear more. A few more feet... but they would see him if he swung out in front of the window.

"We will have to watch him carefully," The woman continued. "Lord Eddard has never taken any interest in anything that happened south of the Neck. Never. I tell you, he means to move against me, against the Lannisters. Why else would he leave the seat of his power?"

The man said something too quiet for Bran to hear.

"His wife is Lady Arryn's sister," The woman said. "It's a wonder Lysa was not here to greet us with her accusations,"

Bran looked down. There was a narrow ledge beneath the window, only a few inches wide. He tried to lower himself toward it. Too far. He would never reach.

"I'm sure Lady Lysa is too fearful to talk, your grace," The man sounded out of his depth. "She is... a weak woman. Not a lioness,"

"That weak woman shared Jon Arryn's bed," The man mumbled something again, and the woman gave a scornful laugh. "When he had already agreed to foster that weakling son of hers at Casterly Rock? I think not. She knew the boy's life would be hostage to her silence. She may grow bolder now that he's safe atop the Eyrie."

"But she hasn't got _proof_,"

"Do you think the king will require proof, cousin?" The woman said disdainfully. "He is the king," Silence.

Bran studied the ledge. He could drop down. It was too narrow to land on, but if he could catch hold as he fell past, pull himself up... except that might make a noise, draw them to the window. He was not sure what he was hearing, but he knew it was not meant for his ears.

"But Lord Stark is an honourable man," The man was saying. "If anything, he surely wouldn't betray his king?"

"He betrayed one already," The woman said. "Oh, I don't deny he's loyal to Robert, that's obvious. What happens when Robert dies and Joff takes the throne? And the sooner that comes to pass, the safer we'll all be. My husband grows more restless every day. Having Stark beside him will only make him worse. He's still in love with the sister, the insipid little dead sixteen-year-old. How long till he decides to put me aside for some new Lyanna?"

Bran was suddenly very frightened. He wanted nothing so much as to go back the way he had come, to find his brothers. Only what would he tell them? He had to get closer, Bran realised. He had to see who was talking.

The man mumbled something.

"_That_ is what you think of after all I've just said?" The woman said scornfully. More mumbling.

Bran pulled himself up, climbed over the gargoyle, crawled out onto the roof. This was the easy way. He moved across the roof to the next gargoyle, right above the window of the room where they were talking.

"Well I suppose," The woman sounded like she was considering something. "There's nothing else to do in this godforsaken backwater of a castle. I only hope you've improved since last time, cousin,"

Bran sat astride the gargoyle, tightened his legs around it, and swung himself around, upside down. He hung by his legs and slowly stretched his head down toward the window. The world looked strange upside down. A courtyard swam dizzily below him, its stones still wet with melted snow.

Bran looked in the window.

Inside the room, a man and a woman were wrestling. They were both naked. Bran could not tell who they were. The woman's back was to him, as she pushed the man up against a wall. There were soft, wet sounds. Bran realised they were kissing. He watched, wide-eyed and frightened, his breath tight in his throat. The woman grabbed the man's hand and moved it between her legs, turning them around so it was her against the wall. Her hands buried themselves in his sand-coloured hair, and pulled his face down to her breast. He was only a few inches taller than she was, and much younger.

Bran saw her face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, moaning. Her golden hair swung from side to side as her head moved back and forth, but still he recognized the queen.

He must have made a noise. Suddenly her eyes opened, and she was staring right at him. She screamed.

Everything happened at once then. The woman pushed the man away wildly, shouting and pointing. Bran tried to pull himself up, bending double as he reached for the gargoyle. He was in too much of a hurry. His hand scraped uselessly across smooth stone, and in his panic his legs slipped, and suddenly he was failing. There was an instant of vertigo, a sickening lurch as the window flashed past. He shot out a hand, grabbed for the ledge, lost it, caught it again with his other hand. He swung against the building, hard. The impact took the breath out of him. Bran dangled, one-handed, panting.

Faces appeared in the window above him.

The queen. Bran vaguely recognised the young man beside her as one of the king's squires, a Lannister of some sort.

"He saw us," the woman said shrilly. The man said nothing, mouth uselessly agape, eyes wide with horror, and she turned to him angrily. "_He saw us_,"

"I know," The man looked rather pale and sick. "I - I don't know what to do,"

Bran's fingers started to slip. He grabbed the ledge with his other hand. Fingernails dug into unyielding stone. The man reached down. Bran seized his arm and held on tight with all his strength, but the man struggled to hold him, looking to the woman helplessly. Tutting, she reached down too and together they pulled him up to the ledge.

"What are you doing that for?" The woman demanded, looking at him with disdain.

"Well we can't just let him fall, he's the Stark boy," He turned to her with wide eyes, whilst she stood back with arms folded, and Bran took his chance. He jumped up to the gargoyle, hauling himself up with strength he didn't know he had, and escaped over the stones. He heard shouts from behind him but didn't look back, heart pounding in his chest as he climbed, back across the castle, back down the Broken Tower, back to the godswood, back to Summer, who was still waiting impatiently.

In his haste, his foot slipped as he climbed down the Broken Tower. He was only ten feet off the ground, and screamed as he fell, hitting his head, and everything went black.


	14. Fire And Blood

Aileen had been with Lady Catelyn and the other ladies when the out-of-breath guard brought the news of Bran's fall, having run straight from the scene of the accident. She had seen them carry his limp body up the stairs to his room and lay him down in his bed, looking incredibly small and pale. Lady Catelyn had gone white at the amount of blood coming out of her son's head, but Maester Luwin hadn't been too concerned. Heads bleed a lot, he said, and Bran can't have fallen that far to only have a moderate wound like this. Ten feet at most. He had been more worried about her cousin's left arm, which had suffered a nasty break in two places, though it was now set in a splint and should heal fine, so long as the boy was careful. _No more climbing_, was what the Maester had said sternly, and Catelyn had agreed with her mouth set in a firm line. Apart from these injuries, and several more minor cuts and scrapes, Bran was miraculously unharmed, which was a blessing. It could easily have been worse. If he had landed on his back he could've been crippled, and if he fell onto his head it could have meant a broken neck. So they were lucky, really. She didn't think Bran would see it that way. When he woke up, he would find himself unable to climb anything, ever again. Nor would he be able to ride south tomorrow with his father and sisters, given the risk of his broken arm. He had been so excited to go, too, almost as much as Sansa, who was still giddy with joy over her betrothal to the prince. Aileen did not want to be the one to tell Bran he was to stay in Winterfell whilst everyone else left tomorrow morning.

"Where did they find him?" She looked up at her mother's question. The woman had only got here a few minutes ago, having hurried up when she finally heard the news. Most likely she had been in the godswood.

"Beneath the Broken Tower," Lady Catelyn's voice was rather distant, and far wearier than she ever normally let on. She hadn't left Bran's bedside since he had been brought in that morning, even after the maester assured her he would be fine. It was late afternoon now. "The wolf went and fetched the guards," Her sister and cousins had been here too, at first, though Arya had grown bored soon after Maester Luwin left, whilst Sansa and Morganna had left to finish packing for departing south tomorrow, and get ready for the feast later that evening.

"Have you sent word to Ned?" Her mother asked, expression rather strained. She had come in looking like that, so Aileen doubted it was just down to Bran's fall.

"I was going to," Catelyn shook her head. "But Luwin assured me Bran will wake up soon, so there was no need to worry him until he gets back. He's with the king, after all," There was a pause.

"I'll leave you with him," Her mother said. "Come on, Aileen," Aileen stood and followed her mother out the room.

"Bran never falls," She said once they were out of earshot. It was something that had been bothering her all day. Her mother was silent for a moment.

"Well he wasn't pushed," She said, but looked thoughtful. "If someone had wanted him dead, they'd have killed him whilst he was unconscious on the ground. Besides, there are no windows that low down near there. They couldn't have pushed him off the wall itself,"

"I suppose so," Aileen couldn't think of any counter to that. It made sense. But she had a bad feeling, which wouldn't go away.

* * *

"What are you _wearing_?" Aileen stared as she returned to the rooms she shared with her sister. Morganna was not dressed in the green and white gown their mother had laid out for her. Instead, she wore a gown of blood red, cut in a lady's style rather than a little girl's; it hid her gangly limbs and narrow hips, making her look fourteen at least, rather than eleven, and was trimmed with bronze-coloured thread at the wrists, neckline and waist. It was especially striking next to Aileen's own dress of black, pale pink and silver.

At her words, Morganna turned around with a mischievous grin.

"The seamstress made this dress for me first, weeks ago, which was what I asked for," She said. "Mother had a fit when she saw it, and told the woman to put it away until I was older, but I got it back," Either stole it, or wheedled some poor servant into getting it for her. "Isn't it beautiful?" She swished the skirts gleefully.

"It is," Aileen said honestly, face deadpan. "And the best part is that the colour will hide the bloodstains, after Mother kills you for wearing it to a feast," Her sister laughed, careless as ever.

"What can she do, scold me in front of the king?"

"You think she wouldn't?" Aileen raised an eyebrow. "She's angry enough with you already. Good luck avoiding that," Morganna faltered slightly, but then the grin was back.

"She won't make a scene," She tossed her hair. "At least if she drags me off, I'll have worn it for a little while. Now, are you going to do my hair or not?" Aileen shook her head.

"You're impossible," Despite her words, she couldn't help but smile faintly, moving over to the dressing table, Morganna grinning in triumph and sitting down in front of her.

Her sister looked even more beautiful when she was done, hair in a northern style, flowing freely over her shoulders and down to her waist. Morganna returned the favour; her hands were nimble and precise, and she gave Aileen the same just with several more intricate braids running through. The two sisters stood beside each other in the mirror. Morganna was already an inch or two taller than Aileen, eyes dark grey where Aileen's were pale, hair a slightly lighter shade of brown compared to Aileen's raven black. Morganna's neck was bare, whilst Aileen had a chain of silver around her neck, the flayed man of House Bolton hanging head-first down onto her chest.

They entered the feast together. It was the last night they'd see each other for a long time after all, and as different as they were, as irritating as she often was, Aileen would miss her sister.

"My lady, may I have this dance?" She looked up in surprise as one of the king's squires, a comely Lannister boy with sandy-blonde hair, held out a hand to her. There were prettier girls here - Morganna, for one - which explained her surprise. She did like to dance, though, even if she wasn't anything special at it, and had already partnered with her cousins Robb and Jon, with Ren and his friend Loreon, and even with little Rickon early on before he was shooed away to bed by his mother. Normally she would've danced with Edrick too, but he was still locked away until Joffrey rode out of Winterfell's gates. Aileen definitely wasn't expecting anyone she didn't already know to want to dance with her.

"You may," She said, slightly unsurely, not missing the way he glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the head table, where the king and queen were sat. He was a fair enough dancer, she supposed, better than she was, and quite a lot taller. There was something off about him though. He seemed... on edge.

"My name is Lancel," He said as they moved across the floor, and even his attempt at conversation came out somewhat strangely. "Lannister," _Forced_, that's what it was. But who on earth would be forcing him to talk to her?

"I'm Aileen," She didn't give her last name, it was obvious enough from the silver Bolton flayed man that hung around her neck, a gift from her grandmother. "My brother Renan mentioned you. I believe you know him? Your cousin Jaime's squire," Lancel looked rather annoyed by that, and she wondered if _he_ had wanted to squire for the infamous Kingslayer. He couldn't exactly complain, considering now he served the king.

"I know him," He gave a sulky look, but held his tongue. Aileen gave a small smile, and they didn't speak for the rest of the dance. He left her with a mumbled word, and she was left rather perplexed by the whole situation. She glanced up at the head table, looking for her mother, only to see her in the arms of King Robert himself. The woman didn't often dance, unless it was with her uncles Ned or Benjen, and never with their father. Now, however, she wore a grudging smile, going along with it as the king spun her around; Aileen couldn't imagine the man was easy to refuse, even if he hadn't been king, but it was good to see her smile. Her mood, like Edrick's had been growing darker and darker over the last few days, as the day everyone and Morganna went south approached. Her mother wasn't the best dancer, but she wasn't bad either, and looked unusually graceful tonight, given her usual stiff, upright posture. Perhaps that was due to her partner being the towering, overweight, inebriated king, or the fact Aileen had seen her drinking rather a lot of wine herself, but her mother did look rather lovely in her sweeping dark blue and bronze dress.

A familiar shriek of laughter erupted from somewhere over her shoulder, and Aileen turned around to see Loreon Storm dancing with Morganna, who had shrieked after he lifted her clean off the floor and spun her around, without seeming to be making any effort at all. When he put her down she staggered and fell against his chest, in a way that Aileen could tell was very deliberate, but would doubtless look innocent to anyone else. Loreon caught her in his strong arms, and when she saw Aileen looking she shot her a wicked look. Aileen shook her head in mock-outrage at her sister, who just laughed again.

"She's too young for you," Ren stepped in warningly, though he was smiling in amusement. His friend laughed and obliged, letting her go, and Morganna hit her brother's arm in annoyance.

"I was enjoying that!"

"Tough," Ren grabbed her hand. "Come on, Loreon might be able to throw you around like a rag doll, but we both know who you prefer to dance with," All four siblings were close, but Morganna had idolised her older brother since she was old enough to walk. Perhaps because she didn't have a twin of her own like Aileen had Edrick.

"That's true," Sure enough, her sister shot Loreon an apologetic look that was anything but, and let Ren lead her into the next dance. They made quite the sight, tall, dark and slender where Aileen and Edrick were shorter, and stockier in her twin's case. When it caught the candlelight in just the right way, the bronze trim of the girl's dress looked almost gold.

"I thought I'd got rid of that dress," Her mother was suddenly beside her, staring at Morganna with narrowed eyes.

"I did tell her you wouldn't like it," Aileen turned to her and smiled. "She's not doing any harm. And besides, Ren would have the eyes out of anyone who looks at her funny," Her mother stared for a moment more, before her expression softened slightly.

"I suppose," She sighed. "Everyone's already seen her in it, anyway, there isn't much point in making her change,"

* * *

"You promise you're staying?" Bran's blue eyes stared up at her imploring. He was awake now, but still confined to his bed after he'd tried to stand and nearly fallen over due to dizziness, and almost as impatient about it as Edrick had been about having to remain in his rooms. "Not even going back to the Dreadfort,"

"Not for a while," Aileen gave him a small smile. The others had all said goodbye to Bran earlier, of course. They were all eager to be off and gone down to the yard afterwards. Even Lady Catelyn was down there, bidding farewell to her husband and daughters, who were leaving with the royal party. Aileen had stayed with Bran for as long as she could, before she went to say goodbye to everyone too.

"Thank you," Her cousin tried to smile, but it was very half-hearted and quickly ended up back as the sullen look that had been on his face since he found he wasn't to go south with them. "Are you sure I can't go with them too?" Aileen shook her head. It really was unfair. Bran desperately wanted to go, and had been so excited, whilst her little sister had swindled her way into a place in the travelling party against the wishes of everyone.

"You can't risk jolting your arm, or getting an infection," She repeated the Maester's words. "Because then you'll never be able to use it again. Is that what you want? To never be able to climb again, or ride properly, or hold a shield?" Though he didn't argue with her, Bran looked even more sullen, turning away. "I'm sorry," Aileen got to her feet and straightening her skirts. "I have to say goodbye to everyone, I'll be back soon," She turned to leave, but Bran's voice stopped her.

"I don't think they should go to King's Landing," She was about to just shake her head and go, but something in his tone stopped her. His voice was subdued, rather small, not just the whining of a child being left behind anymore.

"Why?" She raised an eyebrow. He hesitated, and she could tell something was wrong. "Bran?"

"I saw something," He blurted out, eyes wide and scared. "Before I fell, I only just remembered when I woke up today," Aileen was silent, a nasty feeling gripping her stomach. With an uncertain look, Bran continued. "I - I can't tell you what happened,"

"Go on," She encouraged, moving closer.

"No, I can't," Bran's eyes widened in panic. "I can't, the people will - " He broke off.

"People?" She pressed. "Who were they?" Bran looked away. "Bran, you have to tell me,"

"I can't," He looked scared, and Aileen wanted to persuade him to tell her what it was, but she could hear the shouts and clattering of the party getting ready to leave. If she left it much longer, Ren and Morganna and everyone would go without her saying goodbye.

"I'll be back," She promised, giving him a hard look. "After everyone has left, I'll come back here, and you'll tell me what it is," Bran said nothing, and she left at a fast walk.

* * *

She stood on the battlements alongside her brother, watching the snaking trail of horses ride away over the moors. Edrick was still acting strangely; he had been acting strangely for days now, ever since Bran had fallen. She had known immediately that something was wrong, for she could read her twin like a book - as he could read her - even despite the grins and jokes that would have kidded most into believing everything was fine. She had asked him what was wrong that night, and for the first time she could remember, her brother had refused to say. He hadn't lied - she would've known if he had - but had simply said that he couldn't tell her; she didn't need to know. She had only let it go because he said their mother knew it too.

He was staring off into the distance now, the wind ruffling his scruffy hair. A frown was on his face because he thought no one was looking. She didn't count.

Aileen squinted at the procession before them. She could see Morganna, laughing with a girl she suspected was Lizzie Lewis, who Ren had somehow wrangled to go south with them as his sister's handmaid. Sansa was sat prettily but a little awkwardly on her horse nearby - she had never been the most natural rider - whilst she couldn't see Arya anywhere. Her uncle was riding with the king and his guard, including Ren as the Kingslayer's squire. And in the other direction, far into the distance, were a much smaller party, where she knew Jon Snow and Uncle Benjen were riding to the Wall, along with the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister.

Aileen reached out and laid her hand on Edrick's, where it was clenched into a fist at his side. Not just for him, but for her too; Bran's revelation had shaken her, and she was still unsure as to what to do with the. He looked at her, and a wordless look passed between them.

"I can't," He said, sounding angry but not at her. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you," _If you can't tell me, you can't tell anyone_. It seemed like everyone had a secret they couldn't tell her.

"Oi," They both looked up sharply as they saw Robb climbing up the stairs towards them. Theon sauntered behind him. "Why are you up here, not down with everyone else?"

"Moping," Theon smirked.

"Fuck off, Greyjoy," Edrick said, but without much vehemence. He and Theon generally got along, unlike Theon and Jon. There were often arguments, but Edrick argued with everyone, hot-headed as he was.

"They'll be back before we know it," Robb said with a grin, clapping his cousin on the back, though Aileen saw the sadness in his eyes.

"Of course," Aileen murmured, though her eyes didn't leave the party.

* * *

Several days after everyone left, Aileen was in the library tower, as was her custom. She was enjoying the whole castle being so empty, like a breath of fresh air after all the hundreds of people that had come with the king. Even her sanctuary of the library had often been occupied, usually by Tyrion Lannister. Whilst the man had been pleasant enough, asking her what books she would recommend - as well as her opinions on one of the lesser-known texts she was surprised anyone else had heard of - she came to read to be alone, and was glad to be now.

The library tower was her favourite place in the castle. She was generally the only one who visited, apart from Maester Luwin and occasionally a few others, and loved to sit by one of the long, light windows, able to see for miles outside the walls and lose herself in a book at the same time. The Dreadfort library was rather interesting, with some rather graphic notebooks on the art of torture and flaying, but not nearly as large as the one at Winterfell. The air smelt of old parchment, dust and woodsmoke from the fire in the hearth. Which was why she noticed straight away when the more putrid smell of something burning that shouldn't have been reached her nose.

She was on her feet in an instant, seeing the smoke first, then the orange flames licking at the bottom of the long drapes. She acted on instinct, yelling for the guards, whilst drawing her eating knife out of her belt. It was only small, and needed sharpening, so sawing through the thick material was a challenge, the fire spreading ever closer. It had spread, she saw, and one of the smaller bookshelves was now aflame. Men were running in now, shouting in alarm. Calls were made for water, whilst two of them grabbed her by the arms and hurried her away. Before she was taken out, she saw two more guards ripping the rest of the drapes down that she'd started cutting through. The fire was too big to stamp out, hopefully they'd have the sense to put it in the hearth, at least until water made it to the tower.

"Are you alright, milady?" Wayn asked her. She nodded tersely, flattening her back against the wall as men rushed past with buckets of water.

"Aileen!" Robb called, running towards her once she reached the courtyard. "I heard the library tower's on fire, what happened?" Lady Catelyn was close behind him, looking deeply concerned. She had been visiting Bran when Aileen had left to go to the library.

"I don't know," Aileen admitted. "I was the only one in there, I think, and I didn't even have a candle - " She broke off, suddenly thinking of something. "No. I heard footsteps, earlier, I thought they were Maester Luwin, they soon left,"

"The Maester has been in WIntertown all morning," Catelyn eyes narrowed. "But who would - " She was cut off as a piercing scream - chilling, made by someone in pure agony - suddenly wracked the air, and not from the tower behind them, the small fire having been mostly dealt with.

"What was - ?" Robb looked alarmed, as another scream soon followed the first. "That came from the keep," Catelyn's mouth fell open.

"Bran," Was all they heard her say, before the normally dignified lady took off across the courtyard, skirts flying. Robb didn't take long to follow her, as the shouting continued. Aileen hastened to follow.

She had never seen as much blood as there was on the floor of Bran's room. Her young cousin lay on the bed, crying and crying in pain. It took her a moment to notice the four stumps where the fingers of his right hand had been, bleeding heavily onto the sheets as his mother sobbed over him, screaming for the maester as guards filled the room. But everyone who entered wasn't looking at Bran. Rather, at the mutilated body of a man on the ground, over which the wolf, Summer, stood. The man's fingers were still twitching. He was still alive, and coughed, a painful, hacking noise that brought up blood and spittle. Some of it ended up on the bottom of Aileen's pale pink skirts, making it look even more like the Bolton colours.

"Out," Her mother was suddenly behind her, gripping her shoulders tightly and pulling her away. Numb, she didn't object as she was led out of the room.

"Fucking _hells_," Edrick had arrived, pushing through the growing crowd of people outside the door, and was immediately stopped from going in by their mother. "Wait, is that - _Bran_? Mother, what's happening?"

"I assume someone has sent for the Maester," Her mother turned sharply to the crowd of servants and guards, who looked up at her voice. Aileen was just glad someone was taking charge of the situation, no one else seemed to be in the state to do so.

"Aye, milady," Someone called promptly, and her mother nodded.

"Good," She eyed them all. "I need two guards, to assist Lady Catelyn in carrying Brandon out of there, Lady Arya's rooms are nearest," Two men immediately obliged, whilst everyone else began muttering about what could possibly have happened. Why anyone would want to kill such a young, sweet boy. Aileen felt slightly sick. Bran had been about to tell her what was wrong; what if it was something to do with this?

Her cousin, still sobbing and nursing his injured hand, was carried out and into his sister's rooms, his mother at his side. Maester Luwin hurried through the crowd, breathless, an assistant holding his supplies in a crate, and then the door to Arya's chamber was firmly closed by their mother with a painful finality. Lady Bolton stood against it for a second, then turned to the crowd again. The look in her eyes was dark.

"Is the attacker still alive?" A moment of silence, then someone moved to check.

"He is," The man spat on the injured would-be assassin, who could do barely more than mumble some unintelligible, angry words, clearly in great pain. Edrick hissed in anger, drawing the knife he kept at his belt and moving forwards, but Aileen grabbed his arm, holding him back and nodding at him to pay attention to their mother, who was looking down at the attacker like he was something nasty on the sole of her boot.

"Keep him alive," Her voice was steely cold. "And bring him to the cells. The one with the table,"


	15. The Trident

The journey south passed much as it had done on the way up to Winterfell. The queen's wheelhouse was as slow as ever, as was the huge baggage train, all trundling along at agonisingly slow speeds, for league after league after league. Ren remembered the first time he had travelled down this way, aged four, riding down with his mother to Riverrun, sitting in front of her on her horse. That journey had seemed to go in a blink of an eye, his child self eagerly taking in all the new sights and sounds. This journey, on the other hand, felt like even more of an eternity than it had on the way north.

Ren spent most of the time riding with Loreon, often Tommen too, as the boy did not like to be left with his father without his bastard brother there. The black direwolf pup everyone called Crow - growing larger every day - ran beside his horse at times, and went off hunting with Arya and Sansa's wolves at others. Ren still wasn't sure why the creature seemed to like him so much, but he rather liked it being there. Even at such a young age, Crow was rather menacing. Sansa's Lady was sweet natured and docile, Arya's Nymeria was adventurous and fierce, but Crow was darker, taller and leaner than the rest, with a rather mean, hungry look in his yellow eyes. He also had somewhat of a temper, sometimes snapping at anyone who wasn't a Stark who got too close. As a result, Tommen tended to give Crow a wide berth, as did many others, and even Loreon and Jaime still gave the wolf wary looks every now and again.

Though Lizzie had left Winterfell with them, Ren rarely saw her before they made camp for the night. The girl didn't have a horse, so travelled in one of the wagons, far back in the column. She had laughed at him at the start and said they could ride pillion on his horse, but she had been joking, he was almost certain. Ren would've been fine with that arrangement, if he hadn't known Lizzie was too scared to get on a horse, never having ridden before at all. So he saw her in the evenings, mostly, after Jaime had dismissed him.

He didn't see Morganna much during the day, either; she was always riding with Princess Myrcella, who she had befriended against all odds. Ren had never paid much attention to the princess, save the few occasions she had come to see Loreon. She was a nice girl, pretty, and not nearly as vile as her twin Joffrey, but she seemed far too well behaved for his little sister to be interested in her. She must have had a hidden side, for Morganna rarely hung around with people who bored her, regardless of whether they were a princess or not. Sansa was still fawning over Joffrey. Apparently the way he had reacted to Edrick beating him up hadn't put her off at all, which was a shame. Whilst Ren had to admit the little shit could be charming when he wanted - and acted charming around Sansa - he knew it wouldn't last. He imagined that his innocent little cousin would find that out the hard way. Arya, on the other hand, was never to be found, darting throughout the column causing trouble and making friends with anyone and everyone. Her latest was a butcher's boy, Mycah, who Sansa turned her nose up at. Arya came back covered in leaves and dirt every evening, looking like she'd had the time of her life, babbling about exploring some place or other off the road.

Travelling through the Neck was always the worst part of the journey. The wheelhouse and heavy wagons got stuck in the muddy ground more times than could be counted, and sleeping on the ground at night was always rather damp. By the time they reached the Trident, the whole party was frustrated and irritable, the northmen because of the frustratingly slow pace and the southrons because of the boggy lands they had just gone through. Once in the Riverlands, things were somewhat better. The going got faster, conditions improved and there were far more inns where some of the party could sleep inside. That rarely included Ren, however, so he was largely indifferent to that. There was no chance of Crow being allowed inside too, and on the nights where the direwolf wasn't hunting, he seemed to like curling up next to - but not touching - Ren's bedroll. Loreon, who shared his tent when he hadn't found better company in one of the camp followers or a pretty village girl, found sleeping with the wolf there rather disconcerting. Lizzie, who shared his bedroll most nights, found it strange at first but got used to it after she realised Crow was unlikely to tear her to pieces in the night. Not if Ren was there, anyway.

That afternoon, they had made it to the castle of Raymun Darry, and were spending the night there. Like the many inns they'd passed, being there didn't make much of a difference to most of the party, given that the castle was not a particularly large one and there was only room for the higher status noble inside. The rest would still be sleeping in tents outside the walls as normal. Not a problem.

With Tommen, Jaime, his uncle, Arya, Morganna and Sansa all inside the castle, and Loreon taking up there tent with yet another girl - this one might have been a serving maid, he really was his father's son - Ren was left to himself. He knew exactly what to do with his time. Walking through the tents of the Stark men, well outnumbered by the Baratheon and Lannister colours, he scanned the crowds of people until he saw the familiar face he'd been looking for. She was talking to several young Baratheon soldiers, clearly flirting, one hand on her hip whilst the other played with the simple iron ring on a string round her neck - her grandmother's wedding ring, he knew - but when she saw him, the others were instantly forgotten. He had all her attention.

"Hello," Lizzie grinned her wicked grin, blue eyes sparkling, and he smiled faintly back. She grabbed his arm - he didn't object - and steered them both away from the group of now irritated men she had been leading on. "Got bored of all the lords and ladies?"

"Course," They walked through the tents, her still on his arm. He liked the height difference between them; they had always been a similar height when he had visited Winterfell as a boy (in fact, at one time he suspected she had even been taller than him) but now he stood at six feet, and was still growing, whilst she was an inch or so less than five and a half. "Not that they bother with the likes of me much," He didn't mind so much when people's eyes just moved passed him. It was when they treated him like a servant, or called him bastard, or cast judging eyes over him. One day, soon, he would be a knight and would get none of that. It couldn't come soon enough. Lizzie just snorted, and he glanced behind them. "You should be careful there," He eyed up the rather disgruntled men they'd just left behind. Lizzie's grin widened, but her eyes went cold. She wasn't a lady; she had the same stubborn pride and self-reliance that many lower born girls had and disliked the idea of being protected. Or told how to keep herself safe.

"Why do you care?" He knew what she wanted him to say, so didn't.

"Who said I did?" He smiled in faint amusement, and she elbowed him in the side.

"Bastard,"

"Exactly," He raised an eyebrow. "I didn't fancy seeing you after one of them has had a few and decided to knock you around some. Now, I'm wondering if you deserve it," She just laughed at that. She didn't have a pretty laugh like Sansa or the queen - hers was more of a cackle - and shook her head as they continued towards the edge of the camp, into the woods.

"I'm honoured,"

* * *

He had been sharpening Jaime's sword outside his tent when he saw the four children trudging past, looking rather worse for wear, two wolves skulking behind them. Crow, who was gnawing on a leftover pig bone beside him, rose when he saw his littermates approaching, trotting up and giving Lady a small nip before barrelling into Nymeria, knocking her off course. Ren frowned. Sansa was crying quietly, Arya had a look on her face that could only be described as pure rage mixed with white-faced terror. Tommen was pale, and covered in dirt, whilst Morganna...

"What the fuck is that?" He was on his feet in an instant, moving over to his sister. Sansa winced slightly at his rough language, but he ignored her, grabbing Morganna's face and tilting it sideways, ignoring her protests. "Who did that to you?" He'd kill whoever it was. Spreading across his little sister's face was a deep purple bruise, the skin broken in several places. You didn't get a bruise like that just from playing, that was worse than many of the injuries he had suffered in the training yard.

"Joffrey," Arya sounded as hysterical as she ever got, anger burning fiercely in her grey eyes alongside the fear. "He cut Mycah, so I threw his sword in the river and Nymeria nearly attacked him and - and - "

"Bloody hells," Ren cursed, cutting her off. _Why the hells is Tommen with them?_ Sansa started crying again. "Where is that little prick now?"

"We left him in the woods," Morganna, of all of them, only looked slightly shaken as she tossed her hair. Rather unconcerned, to tell the truth, which told him all he needed to know about how bad the situation was. His sister didn't take anything seriously. "It wasn't far away,"

"I still don't think we should have left him?" Sansa said tremulously. "What if - "

"Oh who _cares_?" Morganna snapped irritably. "You can't still be mooning after him after this?" She jabbed a finger at her own bruised face. "You're meant to marry him. What if you're next?" Sansa opened her mouth to argue back - Tommen was conspicuously silent - but Ren cut them off.

"Someone will find him if he can't get back on his own," He didn't care much either way, trying to ignore the part of him that wanted nothing more than to go out with Crow and find the prince himself. That would end well for no one. As though sensing his mood, the wolf growled. "And when he does, it won't be pretty," All of them went a little more pale at that. Ren sighed. "Come on, we'll go and find your father," He glanced at Tommen. "Go to your uncle. There'll be trouble if you don't go to your family straight away, and I can't imagine you fancy explaining to your mother what happened," Tommen went even paler, but did as he said.

Lord Stark heard the jumbled version of events with a cold, stony expression that barely moved a muscle. From what Ren could gather, Arya and her friend the butcher's boy had been playing by the river, at swords of all things, using sticks. Joffrey, who had been walking with Sansa, found them, and starting picking on the butcher's boy like he did with anyone he deemed below him. Arya had been angry, and nearly attacked him, but then Morganna - who had somehow ended up spending the afternoon with Tommen, he hadn't quite caught why - arrived. His sister had laughed at the prince - gods only know what she said - and he had lashed out with his sword in anger. _Whichever idiot gave the boy live steel deserves to be flogged._

Thankfully, Joffrey had only caught her with the hilt still held in his fist, and she fell to the floor, as the prince laughed. That was when Tommen had lost it. Ren blinked in surprise as Morganna recounted how the normally, placid, friendly prince had leapt at his older brother, seeming to follow Edrick's example from a few weeks ago and pushing him over. _He's finally managed to grow a backbone... only took us five years_. However Tommen, unlike Ren's brother, hadn't quite known what to do then, allowing Joffrey to start flailing around with his sword again. Arya had stamped on his arm to make him let go, the butcher boy had run away, and Morganna had thrown his sword in the river. Ren had smirked at that. His uncle did not.

Before he could do anything more than ask if they all agreed with what had happened, they were interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, carrying a sharply-worded summons to Lord Darry's audience chamber. It was a royal seal, but it blatantly came from the queen, not the king.

* * *

The chamber was far too crowded for such a small matter. As darkness fell, the news spread that something was happening and more people flocked to the hall.

"Remember what I said," Ren hissed in his sister's ear, and she nodded, giving him a small grin. On the way there, he had told her to play the innocent victim. If she started making snide comments and jokes, she would turn people against her. "And don't look like you're enjoying it so much," Her grin fell in an instant and he patted her on the shoulder before taking his place in the crowd.

All the children involved in the incident were stood before the king, who was slumped in Darry's high seat looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. The queen and Joffrey were stood to his left, both their faces twisted in anger as they glared at the children stood before them; Sansa, Arya, and Morganna. Sansa looked anxious, and Arya looked furious, but wide eyed and scared. Morganna, for all her faults, was a good actress, and wore a convincing expression of anxiousness mixed with polite regret. Tommen wasn't there at all, which was not promising, and he didn't see Jaime anywhere.

"What's all this about?" Loreon moved up to stand beside him.

"See my sister's black eye?" There was no humour in the look Ren gave his friend. "Your brother did that," Loreon hissed between his teeth.

"I'll give him two for himself when I next catch him alone,"

"Good luck," Ren snorted flatly. "His mother won't let him out of the Hound's sight after this," He paused. "Anyway, I think my uncle will beat you to it,"

Lord Stark was furious, that was plain to see.

"What is the meaning of this, Robert?" He coldly demanded, gesturing around the crowded chamber. "Is the matter to be made into a public spectacle?" He spoke to the king, but it was Cersei who answered.

"How dare you speak to your king in that manner!" She sounded outraged, trying to undermine his uncle, but she had misjudged the situation. There was no chance of Robert siding with the wife he despised over the man he had considered a brother for decades.

"Quiet, woman," Sure enough, Robert snapped at her impatiently. "I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the children. It seemed best to bring everyone here and get the business done with quickly,"

"Well then let's get it done with,"

"My son was attacked, Stark," _Was he_. Cersei stared him down, or tried to. His uncle held her stare, one of the few who could. "Again," Surely that said more about Joffrey than anyone else. "By your feral daughter and - "

"That's not true," Arya said loudly. "We just took his sword. He was hurting Mycah and hit - "

"I do hope the prince is alright," Morganna cut her off, with an admirable look of concern. "He had quite the fall earlier," Sly little thing, that one, wanting the reveal for herself. It would be a reveal, for Joffrey surely wouldn't have told anyone.

"Joff told us what happened," Cersei said imperiously. "You and the butcher boy beat him with clubs and threatened him with wolves," She looked that Arya then Morganna. "Then the Bolton girl stole his sword," Interesting, she hadn't mentioned Tommen. Perhaps she was deliberately leaving it out, not wanting to land her other son in trouble, but that seemed unlikely given that Joffrey was her favourite. At the very least, she should be accusing the girls of corrupting her younger son against his brother.

"That's not how it was," Arya sounded half angry and half terrified. His uncle put a hand on his younger daughter's shoulder. Ren watched silently, glancing between the king, the queen, Joffrey and his cousins. Morganna was doing much the same, peering around the room.

"Yes it is!" Joffrey insisted. "They attacked me, and she threw Lion's Tooth in the river!" Again, no mention of Tommen. The truth wasn't hard to work out. _She doesn't know_. It made sense. If Tommen had done as Ren had said and gone straight to Jaime, he wouldn't have had a chance to be interrogated by his mother - under which he would most definitely crack, the boy couldn't lie to save his life and would no doubt be feeling guilty about the whole thing - and Ren couldn't imagine Joffrey falling over himself to let the whole court know his timid younger brother who he so often tormented had knocked him to the ground. Ren smirked, as the prince threw a particularly vicious look at Morganna. Cersei turned her glare on Ren's sister now, but the girl said nothing, just lifted her chin slightly.

"Liar!" Arya had no such inhibitions.

"Arya, stop, you're ruining everything," Sansa protested, but was drowned out by Joffrey yelling at her sister.

"Shut up!"

"A mature, well-thought response from our future king to the nine year old daughter of a great lord," Ren muttered under his breath, and Loreon laughed darkly beside him.

"Enough!" Robert roared, rising from his seat, voice thick with irritation. Silence fell and the king turned to Morganna. "Now, child, as the most sensible one of this wittering lot, you will tell me what happened," _Most sensible? Ha_. "Tell it all, and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king," Then he looked at Joffrey with barely veiled dislike. "When she is done, you will have your turn. Until then, hold your tongue," Morganna gave a small, gracious smile. Ren knew it promised trouble.

"He did this," She started off well, by pointing to her bruised face, which had purpled even more since they had come out of the woods.

"Who did?" Robert frowned. "The butcher's boy?"

"No," Ren knew his sister relished every word, though she made a good show of being a wide-eyed, innocent girl. "The prince," There was an outburst of gasps and murmurs from the assembled crowd. Joffrey's face flushed a delicate crimson, and the queen said nothing, glancing at her son sharply. Not because he'd hit a girl - to put it bluntly, Cersei wouldn't give two shits - but because he hadn't given her time to prepare his defence for it.

"That's what I was trying to say," Arya said indignantly. "He hurt Morganna! She was only laughing, and he hit her with his sword," Ren doubted very much that Morganna had only been laughing, but rather like Cersei, he didn't care much either. The girl could've been beating an unarmed Joffrey around the head with a mace and he still would've taken her side.

"How do we know that that is the truth?" Cersei dismissed her smoothly. "Children injure themselves often,"

"That," His uncle said darkly. "Was made by a sword hilt,"

"And how are you certain, Lord Stark?" The queen asked her, in that disdainful way she had managed to perfect. "It could be anything,"

"My sister Lady Rosennis had several marks much like that, after near three years at the mercy of Aerys Targaryen," His voice dropped a shade colder. "I know what such a bruise looks like, and I _never_ wanted to see one on her daughter," Silence followed this. The implications of his words were obvious and even as Cersei sneered she glanced warily at Robert, who hadn't seemed to notice the comparison as he glowered at his son.

"You're all saying that Joffrey hit her?" He broke it, addressing the three girls. They all nodded, though Sansa hesitated, head barely dipping once. She couldn't not do it, however, not with the proof in front of her, even if she had wanted to side with her betrothed. Ren hoped this had shaken her a little out of her stupid daydreams for Joffrey. The king looked darkly Joffrey, but motioned to Morganna not unkindly. "Come on girl, tell the story,"

Ren's jaw tightened as it had the first time, as they all listened to Morganna talk. She had been bored, as Princess Myrcella was spending the day with her mother, and had found Tommen on his own too.

"Tommen wasn't there," Cersei interrupted, and Ren bit his lip. Morganna frowned in feigned puzzlement. Robert had raised an eyebrow.

"Yes he was, your Grace,"

"Carry on," The king waved a hand. Joffrey looked strained, perhaps starting to regret the public setting.

Morganna continued. The two of them had wandered off together. Ren read between the lines there, picturing Tommen being dragged along by his sister, who was rather difficult to say no to. They had found Sansa in the woods with Joffrey; Morganna claimed her cousin invited them to join her and the prince, but judging by the brief flicker of surprise on Sansa's face, that was news to her. She likely hadn't done anything of the sort, if anything the opposite, but Morganna had tagged along anyway. She seemed to delight in going out of her way to irritate people she did not like, so Joffrey must have been a challenge she couldn't walk away from.

Soon after, the four of them had come across Arya and the butcher's boy playing with sticks by the river. Joffrey had already been annoyed, by Morganna being there apparently. The girl didn't mention any provocation on her part, of course, though there undoubtedly would have been. She told how it got worse when Joffrey turned on the poor butcher's boy, drawing his sword and threatening him. Morganna had warned Arya off jumping to the boy's defence, telling her to keep her direwolf back or she would attack the prince. _Horsehit_, Ren thought to himself with some amusement. She had already told them all in front of their uncle that she had laughed, saying mockingly to keep the wolf back or Nymeria wouldn't need to be fed for days.

Whichever tale she told to the king, however, Joffrey had then rounded on her, angry. She had got the better of him with words, and they had all laughed but Sansa, who started to cry. Furious, the prince had lashed out at her with his sword hand, catching her cheek and eye with the hilt and knocking her to the floor. Morganna paused in her story.

"When I fell, Prince Tommen got quite angry at his brother," She eyed the prince with a brief nasty gleam in her eye.

"Stop," Joffrey protested angrily. "You're lying. Mother, she's lying," No one paid him any attention except the queen, who glanced at him sharply.

"He jumped at Prince Joffrey and knocked him over," Morganna said, and several surprised murmurs and a few giggles rippled through the room. Tommen was well-liked throughout the court, being a friendly and sociable boy, but it was Joffrey who was feared, particular by the servants.

Arya had held down - not stamped on, Ren was glad to hear in this version - his wrist and Morganna had grabbed his flailing sword, throwing it in the river. At this, Renly Baratheon laughed so much he had to leave the hall, whilst Robert just looked at a flushed Joffrey in disgust. Cersei opened her mouth to utter more expressions of outrage, but Robert waved her down. Morganna finished with how the butcher's boy had run away, and left out how all four of them had left Joffrey squirming on the floor. She didn't use the word squirming, but the look in her eyes made it very clear that was what she meant.

Joffrey was pale facing his father's accusing stare as he began his very different version of events. He was trying to spend a nice afternoon with his betrothed, only to be harassed by the brazen Morganna Bolton and his annoying younger brother. He had been attacked by the butcher boy and the younger two girls, greatly injuring his wrist. Strange, how he would rather be beaten by two little girls than his brother. When Joffrey was done talking, the king rose heavily from his seat, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here.

"What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? He says one thing, she says another,"

"The Stark children are wild," Cersei was saying. "The Boltons are worse. And their direwolves are savage beasts, that deserve to be put down. You heard it out of the girl's own mouth, if she hadn't stopped it then the creature would have attacked our son. They would be a danger in the capital,"

"Fine," Robert shrugged. "Set the wolves loose, or send them away," Ren's uncle nodded, and the faces of both Arya and Sansa fell in disappointment. Arya tried to protest, but her father waved her down. Ren glared at the queen, not that she would've noticed. He had grown quite used to his rangy black wolf, and had been looking forward to walking around the Red Keep with the beast at his heels.

"Is that all you plan to do?" Cersei exclaimed in outrage. "That Bolton boy attacked my son before, and now this. He is being targeted, unjustly. Joffrey claims the youngest tried to break his wrist! Robert, I want her punished,"

"Seven hells," Robert swore. "Cersei, look at her. She's a child. What would you have me do, whip her through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It's over. No lasting harm was done," Joffrey was thirteen, hardly a child enough to be fighting a nine year old, but the queen was furious as ever nonetheless.

"Joff will live in fear whilst these savages are around him,"

"Just as the little girl he struck will fear him," Robert said coldly, though the brief scornful look in Morganna's eye said otherwise. "Maybe it'll teach him some humility. Ned, see that your daughter is disciplined. I will do the same with my son,"

"Gladly, your Grace," Stark was lucky to have gotten off so lightly, considering how warped the tales that had been told were, but frowned that Joffrey had too. Robert started to walk away, but the prince was not done.

"What about _her_?" He called after him, desperate to see someone, anyone punished. "The other girl, who dared lay a hand on the heir to the throne," _This is ridiculous_. The king stopped, turned back and frowned, but Ren had already stepped forward.

"My sister did nothing wrong," Perhaps it wasn't the best idea, but what were they going to do? Kill him? If anything, his uncle and mother had the king's favour. That counted for something, at least. Cersei straightened at the sharp tone directed at her son, disdainful eyes flickering to him. She knew him as Jaime's squire, but they had never spoken. He knew her better, by listening and seeing.

"And how did you possibly come to that conclusion, boy?" She said, and Ren met her eyes with a steely look.

"Go on, bastard," Joffrey was vindictive, vicious. "Explain how she almost crippled my wrist and threw my sword in the river," Ren didn't rise to the bait, pointedly turning to the queen over Joffrey.

"Your son hit my sister, your Grace," He said flatly. His northern accent - strong even after all his time in King's Landing - seemed even stronger against the queen's polished southron tones. Everyone was staring at him. "She's eleven, and half his size. I don't think throwing a sword in a river was the worst thing done today," There was a heavy pause, where Joffrey reddened in anger, and Cersei stared down at Ren, trying to work out his intentions.

"Quite right. Enough of this," The king rumbled wearily before she could reply. Ren counted that as a victory. "Cersei, hold your tongue. Ned, punish the girl if you want, I couldn't give two shits. Although I'd get her a poultice first. Ha, I should have Joffrey do it. Teach him some respect," Chuckling darkly, the king left the room.

* * *

The slim figure moved almost silently through the tent flaps, silhouette dark against the nightfires and torches of the camp outside.

"They killed him," Lizzie whispered in Ren's ear as she slipped beneath his blankets. "Lady Arya's friend,"

"The butcher's boy?" Ren frowned, moving an arm around her. In truth, he had thought little of the boy. He hadn't really done anything wrong, just been there to witness Joffrey's humiliation without a highborn name to protect him. "Who did it?"

"The big one, with the burnt face," Her eyes were narrowed. "The Hound. Rode into the courtyard bold as brass, the boy's body on the back of his horse. I saw him after they got him down. Looked near cut in half, poor lad,"

"He rode him down," Ren said. The boy must've been terrified, on foot and defenceless as an armoured knight galloped behind him, a greatsword swinging, splitting him from shoulder to hip. But Ren would rather that boy died than his sister or cousins suffer. Hells, he would rather that boy died than the direwolves got sent away in truth, but as it was, both had happened. Arya wouldn't be happy.

He looked at Lizzie. In the darkness, lying beside him, her eyes were huge, barely able to be made out in the gloom. Ren's hand slowly slid behind her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he brought her lips to his. He didn't want to dwell on the butcher's boy any longer, and Lizzie squirming and gasping underneath him as he moved on top of her was a rather pleasant distraction.


	16. Summer Snow

Emerging out of the gloom into the cold evening sunlight made her let out a deep breath she hadn't realised she had been holding. Ross wouldn't tell anyone, but it was a relief to get out of the dungeons. She was not a squeamish woman, but there was only so much of the stench of blood and filth anyone could take, and she had had more than her share that day. The screams and shuddering gasps of pain were even worse, and more than once she had to blink anyway memories of the Mad King and his wildfire, but she stood through it all. It wasn't pleasant, but it was necessary, and though she could easily have handed over the assassin to the jailers and waited for results up here, that would be like Ned giving over prisoners to a headsman to be executed rather than doing it by his own hand. Ross did not quite go that far, but she did watch, and listen. That was another reason she stayed. The jailer may not have asked the right questions, or remember exactly what was said.

After all that, the questioning had only been partly successful. The would-be assassin had been hired by a hooded figure the night before the king's party left. When asked if he could remember anything else about the figure, the man had only revealed that it wasn't remarkable at all, except some blond hair had fallen out from under the cloak. He had been given eighty silver stags to kill Bran after Robert left, directions to his rooms, as well as a dagger to do the job with. Ross held the same blade in her hands now.

She examined the dagger as she walked into the keep. It was very well made, Valyrian steel if she wasn't mistaken; its edge looked as deadly as Ned's greatsword, Ice, and the blade had the same perfect sheen. It was a wonder Bran hadn't suffered more injuries than a few scratches and some missing fingers. The owner must be highborn to own such a weapon, which wasn't entirely a surprise. The entire questioning hadn't revealed much more than they could've worked out themselves. The blonde hair was an interesting detail, though. Her mind immediately jumped to the Lannisters, of course, but she had no idea why any of them would want to kill Bran. Unless his uncharacteristic fall wasn't really a fall, but she failed to see how it could be; there were no windows at such a low level on the tower, as she said before. And why would anyone want to make him fall in the first place? The whole thing was maddening, and she was only frustrating herself trying to work it out.

"Lady Rosennis to see you, Lady Catelyn," The guard bowed her through the door of Ned's solar, where her goodsister was sat behind the desk, looking over some ledgers. She hadn't looked herself since Bran's fall, and now after his attack was even worse, with dark circles around her eyes and a wan, pale complexion. Ever the lady, however, she was sat up straight and raised her chin as Ross entered.

"What did he say?" Catelyn didn't bother with pleasantries. "Who sent him?"

"He doesn't know," Ross sat down opposite her, without invitation, playing with the dagger in her lap. She'd rather like to keep it; it would be excellent to fight with, and was small enough to hide on her person with relative ease. "We asked him his name. He's a nobody, a poor sellsword from the Riverlands who joined with the king's party on their way north, hoping for some work as a guard," She placed the dagger between them on the desk with a soft clunk. "This is the dagger he used. He says a cloaked figure gave it to him, and paid him to kill Brandon Stark. They gave him directions to Bran's chamber, so would have had to have known the castle at least a little,"

"Are you sure he wasn't lying?" Catelyn took the dagger, eyeing it darkly with tired eyes. "He could be withholding information. He knows the moment we've got everything, he's dead,"

"I'm sure," Ross nodded shortly. "We were... thorough," Her goodsister wrinkled her nose ever so slightly at that, making Ross' lips twitch, but still looked unsure. "If you like like, you can go and see him yourself. He's still alive," Just.

"No," Catelyn shook her head. "It's fine. Did he have anything else to say about this cloaked figure?" Ross hesitated, remembering Lysa Arryn's strange secret letter and knowing exactly what conclusions her goodsister would jump to if she told her.

"He remembered seeing a lock of blond hair fall out of the hood," She spoke carefully, watching Catelyn's reaction.

"Blond," The woman's eyes narrowed in dislike and suspicion, and Ross immediately wished she had said nothing. Catelyn was silent for a moment, thinking, but then seemed to remember herself. "Was that all?"

"It was," Ross nodded, reaching out to take the dagger. Her goodsister's fingers twitched towards it, as though to take it first, and Ross raised an eyebrow. "Do you want it?"

"No. Apologies," She blatantly did want it. Why, though, Ross couldn't tell, but she firmly took the blade herself as she stood to leave. "Thank you, Rosennis," She nodded in acknowledgement, and left, passing Maester Luwin on the way out.

She wasn't sure why, but it was to Bran's rooms she went to next. The boy was sat up in bed, Old Nan beside him telling a story. Ross knew that one about the Long Night was one of his favourites, but his face was forlorn. Of course it was. Not only had he not been able to go south with his father and sisters after his fall, now he never would fight with a sword in his right hand. Sure, he could learn with his left - it would be easier for a boy like him who had barely started training than it would for an adult who'd been fighting for years - but he would never reach his full potential. Nor would he be able to climb as he had done before, not that his mother would let him after this. The boy was barely eight years old, yet had already lost three and a half fingers, an ear and most of the things he loved to do.

"Aunt Ross," He sounded as miserable as he looked. "Have you seen Maester Luwin? He said I might be able to get out of bed today once he'd checked my head, but I haven't seen him,"

"He's with your mother," She sat down in the other chair. "He'll be here soon," She paused, and he looked at her oddly. Ross wasn't normally the type to sit by children's bedsides, so she cut to the point. "What do you remember about your fall, Bran?"

"I don't know," His expression fell even further. "Maester Luwin asked me that too, and Father, when he was here. I don't remember. I remember climbing. And falling. Then it all went dark, and I woke up here. Before that, I don't know," He looked so lost that Ross didn't press it any further.

"About your fingers - " She started, but he cut her off.

"I know," He glowered at the blankets. "I won't ever be a knight. Who ever heard of a knight with no fingers?"

"Don't be stupid," Ross raised an eyebrow. "You've got a whole other hand of fingers right there," She nodded to his left hand. "I'm sure there's a boy out there somewhere missing a whole arm, or wishing he could walk on crippled legs. That boy would much rather just be missing a few fingers,"

"Lady Ross is right, young Stark," Old Nan nodded along, voice quavering. "Men have fought with far worse injuries than yours," The woman must truly be ancient, for Ross remembered her being called Old Nan when she was a girl. She had read her and Lyanna stories in the room they shared, then Benjen joined them when he was old enough to understand. Ross even had very distant memories of piling into her brothers' room to listen to the stories Old Nan told them, but that was long ago. Brandon had declared aged 10 that he was too old for stories, and shortly after than Ned was sent away to the Eyrie.

"But my left hand's useless," Bran protested. "I can't even write with it. The letters look like Rickon's,"

"Writing isn't fighting," Ross said. "You'll learn, it'll just take a bit longer than for most boys," She stood, walking towards the door. "Or you can stay inside and feel sorry for yourself. It's your choice, Bran,"

* * *

Several days later, Ross woke to the clatter of horse's hooves outside. Quickly dressing herself, she hurried downstairs to see what the matter was, only to find her goodsister preparing to mount, Ser Rodrik beside her. Robb was stood there too, looking regretful and somewhat out of his depth, as Rickon clung to his legs.

"Where are you going?" She asked sharply.

"King's Landing," Catelyn's expression dared Ross to challenge her. "You and I both know who sent that assassin. I need to warn Ned,"

"Are you a fool?" Unlike the other woman, who would act a lady until the end, Ross didn't care what any of the servants or guards in the courtyard thought of their conversation. Robb looked surprised at her harsh words, but said nothing. "You haven't got all the facts. No one has, and that's asking for trouble. And besides, won't people ask questions when you suddenly turn up in court, unannounced?"

"I'm going in secret," Catelyn's eyes narrowed.

"_Secret_?" Ross raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "How? You have one of the most recognisable faces in the Seven Kingdoms, and that city is crawling with spies. They'll know the moment you arrive. You say you're going to help Ned, but this will just put him under suspicion,"

"It's been planned for days," Catelyn said shortly. _This is the first I'm hearing of it_. "I'm going via White Harbour. We'll take a ship, and get there around the same time the king does. You won't stop me, Rosennis, it's my husband and daughters in danger"

"It's my _brother_ and daughter too, don't forget," Ross fired back. "I'm sure Ned will be very glad to see you, but other than that I cannot see any benefit in you going south,"

"We are the _only_ ones who can do something," Catelyn insisted.

"No, we're not," Ross shook her head, tired of this. "He's got half the household guard down there with him, all of whom who'd die for House Stark. He already knows there may be trouble from your sister's letter. Robert, the king, is as good as his brother. Killing him would start a war. There was a single assassin, and we dealt with him. If whoever sent the man wanted any of us dead, they wouldn't have started with the second son. They would've gone for Lord Stark or his heir, or even Sansa, she'd be a valuable hostage. Whoever sent him wanted Bran in particular,"

"And that isn't a cause for worry?" Catelyn said, raising her voice slightly in anger. "That people are sending assassins after my son?" By this point, the whole courtyard was staring at them. Catelyn quickly gathered herself, as Ross stood there, impassive.

"Do you really think I'd let some get away with attacking my house?" She asked coldly.

"I think you're forgetting, Lady Bolton," Her goodsister mounted the horse, assisted by a grim-faced Ser Rodrik who looked at Ross steadily. She didn't blame him for this, he couldn't disobey his lord's wife. "You haven't been a Stark in over a decade," Ross' jaw set. _Fine_.

"I'm done here," She said stonily. "Try not to do anything to get us all killed," Without another word, nor a glance back, she turned on her heel and went back inside, skirts sweeping on the ground.

"Aunt," Robb was jogging after her, keeping up with her long strides. "_Aunt_, wait," She stopped abruptly, turning to face him.

"If you want me to give your mother my blessing on this fool's journey, I won't do it," She snapped.

"I don't," Her nephew said determinedly. "I agree with you, Mother needs to be here to look after Bran and Rickon," _You too_, Ross thought. _You're near to being a man, but you aren't one yet_. "But Father does need to know about Bran," Ross looked at him. At a first glance, he looked like Catelyn. Reddish hair, only slightly more brown than the Tully's, and his mother's high cheekbones and good looks. But his eyes were bluish grey, more like Ned's, and the look in his face... that was all Stark.

"Don't worry," She smiled grimly. "I was on my way to writing him a letter,"

* * *

Maester Luwin knew well enough not to question the fact that her letter was addressed to Jaime Lannister. All her letters she sent to Ren had Jaime's name on them, usually with two envelopes inside, one for him and one for her son. This one had three, however. Ren, Jaime and Ned. Though anyone else would laugh at the idea of trusting the Kingslayer not to read her private correspondence, she knew Jaime wouldn't simply because he didn't care enough what she wrote to her son or her brother. Sending any letters to King's Landing through a Lannister was a good way of ensuring Grand Maester Pycelle didn't go snooping through what she had written; the man had been kissing Tywin Lannister's arse for decades, he was hardly going to be spying on his son's letters.

Ren's letter was the usual, asking him how things were and what he'd been doing, but also included a warning, beyond the one she normally gave, to be extra careful and wary around anyone who wasn't family. Jaime's letter was for his eyes only. And Ned's... Ned's was rather strongly worded. Her quill had broken through the parchment in places, and her handwriting was even spikier than usual, inkblots dotting the page. She only hoped her brother managed to read it before he met with his wife, for gods know he wouldn't turn up a chance to blame anything on the Lannisters. Ross was of the view that whilst it could have been them who sent the assassin, it could have been literally anyone else. All they had was the word of Catelyn's mad sister, and a sighting of blond hair. No motive, no evidence, just dislike and mistrust. Of course, whoever it turned out to be who tried to kill her nephew, Ross would happily see them dead. But they had to be careful. And poking around Cersei Lannister without solid proof was not advisable for anyone.

She watched the raven fly out of the south window, wings dark against the overcast sky. There would be a summer snow that night, she could feel that the wind was cold. Her father's grim face appeared in her minds, his low voice rasping their words. _Winter is coming, child, and don't you forget it_.

Ross didn't feel like dealing with anyone at dinner, but she had to. Catelyn wasn't here. She was the Lady of Winterfell for the first time since she was fifteen, and that came with responsibilities. The children needed someone, given that their mother had gone tearing off at the drop of a hat. Well, someone trying to kill her son, but it had the same effect. Robb might have been the heir, but it was she that held the North.

Dinner was as bad as she had feared. Edrick had been off with her since seeing her and Jaime in the godswood, which she couldn't blame him for, but it was rather wearing putting up with his narrow-eyed looks and short tone with her, when he acted normally with everyone else. Bran had finally been allowed out of bed, but was picking miserably at his food with his knife, scowling as he struggled to stab the meat on his plate one-handed. Aileen leaned over wordlessly and started to cut it for him, but he rather rudely told her he wasn't a baby and could do it himself. He barely could, of course, which Rickon helpfully pointed out, making his mood sink even lower. Robb, to his credit, put on a brave face, inviting the blacksmith, Mikken, up to the head table to talk with him, like Ned always did; to anyone but Ross, he was convincing. He seemed to have grown up a lot in the days since everyone had left.

Baby Rickon was the worst of them all, however. He wouldn't sit still, wouldn't eat his meal, and directed angry outbursts at anyone who tried to tell him to, loudly asking for his mother, and why she wasn't here. Ross got so fed up in the end, after he had knocked over his cup on purpose, that she stood and pulled the boy off his seat by the wrist. Ignoring his furious tantrum, she half-dragged, half-carried him out of the hall, where she gave him a sharp slap on the palm of his hand. He looked taken aback by that; Catelyn was strict with her children, but rarely hit them. It was Ned who had punished the boys, but not Rickon yet, being too young.

"You _behave_," She hissed sharply, bending down to his level. "I know your mother isn't here. I wish she was, we all do. But she isn't, and there's nothing we can do, so stop acting like a baby,"

"I'm not a baby!" Her little nephew said angrily, stamping his foot. His hair was redder even than his mother's, but his eyes were a stormy grey. At four, he reminded her of Edrick when he was young, and before that, Brandon.

"Then prove it," Ross straightened up. "Any more misbehaving, and you go straight to bed," She raised an eyebrow and he nodded grudgingly after a second. "Are you going to walk next to me or do I have to hold your hand?"

"Walk,"

"Good," She led him back around the corner, into the hall again, where to everyone's credit they pretended nothing had happened. Rickon sat, and ate, and though he fidgeted a lot, and snapped at Bran several times, he generally behaved well enough. It wouldn't last, Ross knew. She was not their mother, she was not who the boys - even Robb - wanted. _Damn you, Catelyn, can't you see you're needed here? _She hoped Ned would have the sense to send his wife straight back to Winterfell when she reached the city. She hoped he wouldn't listen to the dangerous accusations coming from her mouth. She had watched her elder brother accuse the royal family, and she had watched him die. If it happened to Ned too, she didn't know what she would do. Blame his wife, quite possibly.

* * *

It was a relief to finally be alone in her room later on. Catelyn kept all the ledgers in order, but there was still so much more to be done each day, especially with Vayon Poole gone south with Ned. Ross had spent the day dealing with the accounts, dealing with the children and standing by Robb along with Maester Luwin as he saw petitioners in the great hall. She hadn't had to do much there, as her nephew was very capable, and listened readily to advice when he wasn't sure, but nonetheless, being surrounded by people all day had exhausted her. For once, Ross fell asleep without lying awake in bed for too long.

_Another pyre was being built, in the empty hall, the Iron Throne looming over everything... It was her own hands that built it, which were shaking, red and raw from the work. She was tired, so tired... She wanted to stop, but knew she couldn't. So tired, so sad... If she could just lie down and sleep... The scene went dark._

_She awoke, and the pyre was still there, ten times as big, but the walls were gone. She was on a stage, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a vast, never-ending crowd, all yelling, screaming, baying for blood. Her own? Perhaps. She looked back at the pyre, and her heart was in her mouth. It was suddenly alight already, and above the rising flames her daughter was bound. Morganna wasn't screaming, she just stared at Ross with hollow, dead, accusing eyes as the flames, slowly turning to green, licked at her skirts. Ross felt herself scream, tearing at the pyre, but her daughter was too high, she couldn't save her. _

_Frantically she turned around, looking for anyone, anything, then sank to her knees with a small moan as she saw the heads of Ren and Ned and Jaime on spikes being shaken by the crowd at her. Covering her head with her hands as the horde of people surged forward, all over her, consuming her as the flames consumed Morganna. The flames were fully green now, and rising up from the top was the shade of Aerys, cackling and mad, twisting, transforming, in the hideous shape of a dragon, spreading its wings and roaring aloud as she died on the ground._

Ross awoke with tears streaming down her face, shaking and sweating. It was suddenly unbearably hot under the blankets, and her legs felt trapped. Trying to get a hold of herself, she kicked off the covers and made it to the open window, where a cold wind was blowing through. She pushed the frame open more, letting the wind catch it, making the curtains flap. It brought her to her senses somewhat, and the shaking of her hands stilled. It was snowing outside, as she had thought it would. Not heavily, it was still summer, but enough to remind her that she was still at home. And that two of her children were far, far away.

It was fine when it was just Ren in King's Landing. He didn't look especially like Jaime apart from his eyes, and even then they weren't the exact same green. He was a bastard, he passed everyone by, almost invisible. Or he had done when he was ten, now she wasn't so sure. Either way, few important people looked twice at him. It did help that he was a boy, more than capable of defending himself with a sword. And he was smart. He knew how to keep out of the way and was hardly reckless. Morganna on the other hand was the opposite. She relished in trouble, had little to no cares in the world and seemed to have no idea when the right time to stop was. She was beautiful, she was a young highborn lady and she looked far too similar to the queen. Ren had a lot of her in him, whilst Morganna had a lot of Jaime, to the extreme. Yes, she was clever too, but she was arrogant with it and forgot she was only eleven. Others forgot, too. She looked fourteen.

Ross didn't want to go back to bed. She had gotten far too used to having Jaime there in the last few months. She was not, and had never been, a lonely damsel pining for her lost love - the thought was laughable - and was more than capable of living her life without him, but that didn't mean she wanted to. The world wasn't fair, she had understood that for a long time. That didn't mean she didn't miss him.

She shook her head. Pathetic. Jaime would laugh at her if he could hear her thoughts now. She smiled faintly, summer snow falling onto her hands as she rested them on the windowsill. White flakes against the dark sky. Torches burned within the walls of Winterfell, and a few candlelights flickered in the Winter Town, but beyond that it was complete and utter darkness. Ross liked that. King's Landing had too many lights at night. Too many people. Up here, she preferred the silence.


	17. Intents And Purposes

They arrived in King's Landing a month after leaving Winterfell. Ren had always both welcomed and resented the return to the city. The imposing walls of the Red Keep atop Aegon's High Hill came into view first, a vague shadow on the horizon over the trees, followed by the rest of the city, a sprawling mass covering the three hillsides and spilling down to the Blackwater river. It looked impressive from here, and intimidating; both of which it was built to be, of course. Though the Targaryen sigils had been replaced with stags, though the dragon skulls had been moved to below the castle, gold banners replacing red and black, the spirit of the dragons who had ruled there for hundreds of years was never truly erased, worked into the red walls of the castle itself.

Ren fell back into routine of being in the city easily. He woke early, did any squiring duties that were required, then sparred in the practice yard until past midday, Jaime often coming down to join him, whether that was to spar with him or other Kingsguard knights. Then it tended to be lunch with Loreon and several of the other boys their age, sometimes Tommen too, depending whether his mother was looking for him or not. Ren's afternoons were his to do with as he pleased - half the time that involved another hour or two of practice - which now included the added presence of his family there. And Lizzie, of course.

Arya, Sansa and Morganna were staying in the Tower of the Hand along with his uncle. He didn't see Lord Stark much in those first few days, as if the man wasn't in small council meetings, then the king demanded his presence, or he was meeting privately with certain characters like Littlefinger or Varys. About what, Ren wasn't certain, but he had his suspicions, and it could be nothing good.

A letter from his mother had arrived three days after they reached the city. All letters from his mother came through Jaime - apparently the Grand Maester read through all letters that were not addressed to a Lannister - so it was no surprise when the knight handed him two envelopes one morning, one for him and one for his uncle.

"I'd deliver that now, if I were you," Jaime said casually, sharpening the blade of his own sword for once. "It's not exactly good news,"

"You read it?" Ren raised an eyebrow, more amused than annoyed.

"Only yours,"

"I didn't know you had so much respect for Lord Stark," Jaime snorted at his flat response, and Ren smiled as he took the letters and left, reopening his own as he walked. His walk soon quickened, eyes narrowed in anger, heart racing as he read his letter then opened his uncle's too for good measure. Both said largely the same thing. His mother's tone was clipped and cold as she recounted the events that had taken place at Winterfell shortly after they left.

A fire in the library tower. Aileen barely got out unharmed. An assassin tried to kill Bran, succeeding in crippling his hand so that he'd never be a proper knight. Lady Catelyn gone, tearing off to accuse the queen's family and start a war, and was probably already in the city given the date the letter was sent. His mother told him to make sure his uncle saw sense where his wife was concerned, and not to assume that the incident was anything to do with the Lannisters. It all felt too convenient, she said, like someone was deliberately trying to lead them down a certain path. Ren agreed, though who that might be he did not know. He didn't know what he was supposed to do about all this, though. He was barely sixteen, and still a bastard, no matter how highborn his mother was, and though his uncle showed no less respect to him than he did towards Ren's true born half-siblings, there was definitely a line he shouldn't cross. Telling off Lord Stark's lady wife on behalf of his mother seemed to be a step too far.

When he entered the Tower of the Hand, Ren found his uncle had just got in himself, taking off his cloak. Wordlessly, Ren handed him his sister's letter, which Lord Stark read with narrowed eyes. There was a long silence.

"I've just spoken to my wife," He said eventually. "She was held up at White Harbour for days by what she insists was your mother's meddling - " Ren fought the urge to smile, knowing that his mother and Lord Manderly had been in correspondence in the past over various matters - together they had resolved a trade route to the Karhold, which the Boltons had previously objected to - and had got along well on all such occasions. " - and told me everything that this letter contains. Well," He scanned the parchment again. "Almost everything. She did not mention how reluctant your mother was to act on this information,"

"My mother is right," Ren knew he was speaking out of turn, but as of a couple of weeks ago he was no longer a child, and understood the gravity of the situation well enough. "Accusing the Lannisters - the _queen_ \- of anything, let alone treason, will see all our heads on spikes one way or another," If they had tried to kill Bran, he would make sure they paid for it, but there was a time and a place. _No point in vengeance if it gets us killed too_. He had learned that lesson from his mother; she had had plenty of chances to stab Aerys Targaryen before the end of the rebellion, but had not done it despite loathing the madman, as she would surely have been executed for treason herself.

"I'll agree, there's more going on here than there seems," His uncle frowned. "But nothing you need to concern yourself with,"

"Is it to do with your meetings with Littlefinger?" Ren dared to push a little further. He didn't know much about Lord Baelish, only that he seemed sharp of wit, good with money, amiable and friends with just about everyone. In other words, too good to be true.

"Careful, boy," Lord Stark warned sternly. "You'll do more harm than good getting caught up in matters like these. You're my sister's son and as good as a Stark as far as I'm concerned, but others don't see it that way,"

"Yes, Lord Stark," Ren nodded, knowing all this already but tactful enough not to point that out. He was about to leave but then stopped. "If my mother was here, she would tell you to be careful," His uncle inclined his head tightly, his usual faint smile, that tended to be reserved for family only, pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"She would," He said simply, grimly. "But that's not for you to worry about," He made his voice brighten slightly. "There's a tourney soon, you'll be better off practicing your lance than dealing with southron politics," The tone of his voice made his distaste for such matters evident. Ren riled slightly at being treated like the green boy he was, but didn't let that on.

"I don't joust," He said instead. "I'm only entering the melee," Ren told anyone who questioned that decision that fighting a group of unknowns in disorganised chaos, enclosed in a limited space, was more like battle than riding at a single knight with a long, pointy stick covered in pretty colours. That was true, but the main reason he didn't joust was because he wasn't particularly good at it. There was something about riding straight towards danger for the sake of it that didn't sit right with him; how that differed from entering a ring of fierce fighters determined to win, he wasn't sure, but it did in his head. Ren was a competent horseman, but didn't feel like getting knocked to the ground in front of the whole court. Bloody Joffrey would rub it in his face for months, despite barely being able to lift a lance himself.

"Gods," His uncle grimaced. "Try not to lose an arm,"

"No one will get that close," Ren smirked, despite himself. A strange look passed through his uncle's eyes, the same look from the incident at Winterfell with Edrick and Joffrey.

"I'm sure they won't," Lord Stark said, honestly. "You're one of the best swordsmen I've ever seen, never mind your age," Such praise from his reserved uncle was rare, but Ren preferred that to false platitudes and constant attention. With Lord Stark, you knew you'd earned it.

"My mother would tell you not to make me cocky," His uncle gave a short laugh.

"If you've spent this long with Jaime Lannister and haven't got an ego the size of Casterly Rock yet, I don't think she needs to worry,"

Ren almost asked him there and then. He was so close to just asking - did he know that it was highly likely that the Kingslayer was his father. But he didn't, which in hindsight was a good decision. He could figure the answer out himself, really. Lord Stark hated Jaime Lannister. Surely if he'd known that the man had left his sister with a bastard son, something would've happened. Like getting himself killed trying to stab Jaime for it, or at least not speaking to Ren's mother for a few months.

"That's good to hear," Ren smiled, moving towards the door. "My lord," He gave a quick nod, then left the Tower of the Hand.

* * *

The different ways his cousins and sister adapted to life in King's Landing was rather amusing to watch.

Sansa was in her element, clearly. Though she was still furious with Arya over the matter of the direwolves being sent back to Winterfell, she loved everything about the capital, and was practically ecstatic when she heard there was to be a tourney held in her father's honour. Joffrey's display of characteristic brutality towards her cousin had not seemed to diminish her awe of the brat, either, though Ren was just waiting for the time the prince inevitably showed his true colours again.

Arya was not so enamoured with court life, and he didn't blame her. It was alright for Ren, he could pass by most highborn lords and ladies completely invisible, and no one cared where he went or what he did, so long as he was at Jaime's door first thing in the morning and didn't steal anything. That gave way to plenty of drunken nights with his friends outside the castle walls in the seedier parts of the city, often involving a brothel or two, or at least a willing serving maid. Arya, however, was a lady, one of the highest born in court despite appearances, and though she was used to avoiding her mother and septa in Winterfell, no one else there really minded that she was more scruffy little boy than noble lady. Here it was different, and it was evident that his cousin found it stifling, and would much rather be back in the North.

With Morganna, it was somewhat harder to tell. She clearly liked the glamour of court, the fact that all the young boys looked at her with mouths hanging open as she passed (Ren's answering glare soon shut those mouths as fast as her father's reputation ordinarily did in the North) and how many more people there were here to play mind games with. She also enjoyed the company of Princess Myrcella; how his sister hadn't driven the princess away in tears yet, Ren would never know. Perhaps Myrcella was less perfect than she appeared. But he could also tell that Morganna missed Edrick and Aileen, missed their mother (though perhaps not her father) and missed being free to go out riding without the huge organisation that came with gathering a guard down here.

That fact was proven when she snuck out to meet him in the middle of the night.

"Ren," He was already awake, having heard the soft footsteps padding across the floor of his sleeping cell. At the whisper, he let go of the knife under his pillow - which he had kept there ever since his first week as a squire, when a few of the highborn-ish squires he shared a room with had taken a dislike to him for his bastard name and sharp tongue - sitting up in bed. Beside him, Lizzie stirred, huddling up closer to him, her long hair tickling his chest.

"What are you doing here?" He raised an eyebrow at his sister, who had a dark brown cloak draped over her slender shoulders, pale face peeking out from under the hood. "It's past midnight," More importantly, how had none of the Winterfell men noticed her leaving the Tower of the Hand? A glance to his left confirmed that the other two squires sharing the room were still dead to the world.

"I want you to take me out into the city. I want to see what it's really like, without all the guards and ladies," Even in the darkness, her eyes were agleam with that excited, reckless glint she got sometimes, and he knew there would be no reasoning with her. Not that he wanted to. "You can't lecture me about being responsible," She nodded at Lizzie with a smirk. He felt like rolling his eyes, but didn't.

"Not tonight," He said, anticipating her protest by quickly continuing. "Day after tomorrow. Me, Loreon and a few others are going out, I'll dress you as another squire," He didn't mention that he didn't want to take her out on his own in case some of the less savoury characters in the pubs they visited realised she was a highborn girl, and a beautiful one at that. Whilst he could certainly handle a handful of drunks from Flea Bottom, he couldn't do that and keep an eye on his sister at the same time. It was one thing taking Lizzie out with him, she was used to being around people like that, could handle herself and knew enough not to cause trouble. It would be quite another taking Morganna.

"I don't think I'll make a very convincing boy," She didn't look put off by this at all.

"A big cap, some mud on your face and baggy clothes?" He smirked slightly. "No one'll look twice. You don't look quite like a woman yet, remember, not matter how many spotty little boys gawp at you,"

"Shut up," She grinned nonetheless. "They're getting braver, you know. One of them came up to me earlier and asked if I was betrothed yet,"

"Charming," Ren's eyes narrowed. "Who was it?" Gods sake, his sister wasn't even twelve for a moon's turn.

"Your age, slightly shorter, brown hair," She shrugged. "I can't remember his name, but his breath stank like high heavens,"

"Hogg," He would deal with him later. "Alright," He got out of bed, being sure not to wake the others. Lizzie immediately rolled into the middle of the small bed. "I'm taking you back to bed. If you get caught by the guards out at this time, they'll throw you onto the street. They won't believe you're a lady dressed like that, trust me,"

"Won't two of us be more obvious?"

"They know me," He shrugged, not particularly wanting to explain to his sister why seeing him escorting an unknown cloaked woman out in the middle of the night would not be a surprise for any of them. She could probably guess, anyway, she wasn't Sansa. "You keep your hood up, though,"

* * *

"Seven hells," Loreon swore as Ren approached the gates, Morganna at his side. "You look awful. No offence, Lady Bolton," He was looking at his sister, who grinned. Compared to how she usually did, he supposed she did look awful. She wore one of Ren's old shirts, which still was too big for her, and some baggy breeches he had taken from the laundry house. Her old faded green cloak was draped around her shoulders, and though she wore her own boots, they were mostly covered by the trousers and Ren had told her to cover them in mud for good measure. As promised, a big cap cast most of her face in shadow, and a short training sword hung from her belt. Of course, if you knew she was a girl then it was obvious, but to most onlookers she would just appear to be a very pretty page boy.

"Yes, but no one looked twice at her on the way here," Ren said flatly. "That's what matters,"

"Won't your friends notice?" Morganna asked, not seeming to care either way.

"Not a chance," Loreon snorted. "Bennet's as thick as a castle wall, Cass will be too busy looking for, ah, female company," He shared a look with Ren, and Morganna rolled her eyes, clearly knowing what he meant. "I'm pretty sure Gillan's a sword-swallower, so he won't care. And the other two'll turn up drunk, they wouldn't be able to tell the difference between you or a pig in a dress,"

"Charming,"

"The light's fading, anyway," Ren glanced to the side, seeing the setting sun was well below the castle walls. "It'll be impossible to tell by candlelight,"

He was right. When they turned up, none of their friends - and Ren used that word in the loosest of terms - looked twice at Morganna. As they descended down Aegon's Hill into the city, Gillan asked why the boy was with them; Ren told him the lad was from Winterfell, and painfully shy so they decided to take him out for a few drinks to loosen him up. He saw Morganna shaking her head and smirked, putting an arm around her shoulder.

"Come on, Morgan," He said, steering her carefully around a group of scantily-dressed whores calling out to them from a corner; that was where they lost Cass. "I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself if you try hard enough,"

The night, surprisingly, didn't end horribly. There had been an uncomfortable moment when an extremely drunk gold cloak (off-duty, not that that made much difference) mistook the 'young squire', who had wandered off, for a pretty young whore, but before Ren could get over there and salvage the situation, Morganna had done a rather good job of waving the short sword around and yelling that she was a boy. The man's friends laughed at him, Ren gave them a cold smile, before grabbing his sister's wrist and pulling her down next to him sharply.

That had been the only trouble, however - a miracle in itself - and as the other squires trailed off, Ren and Morganna walked back to the castle.

"I hope you've thought up a good excuse," Ren was a little light headed from the drink, but hadn't let himself get too drunk in case things went downhill. He probably should thought of this earlier. If Morganna hadn't concealed her disappearance, half the Winterfell guard would be out looking for her by now.

"Of course I have," The girl snorted. "My bed's stuffed with pillows, to look like I'm under the covers," Ren smiled.

"I shouldn't have doubted you," There was a pause. "How did you get out of the tower? You never told me," His sister gave him a wicked look.

"That would be telling,"

* * *

"Ren," He had just beaten his sparring partner, resoundingly, and looked up at the familiar voice catching his attention.

"Lord Stark," He nodded to his uncle, as his opponent quickly scrambled to his feet and bowed, wincing slightly at the bruises Ren had given him.

"I need a word," His uncle took him by the arm and led him away slightly, to an alcove where they couldn't be overheard. "I need you to go into the city," The man said in a low voice. "Go to Tobho Mott's armoury, and have a look over the apprentice smiths," Ren frowned.

"I will," He said. "But... can I ask why?" Tobho Mott was one of the best armourers in the city, but Ren knew his uncle would have little patience with his flashy and intricate designs; plain and strong steel was favoured up in the north. This wouldn't be to collect anything or request an item to be made, so what in hells was it?

"You'll know why the moment you see it," Lord Stark said. "Don't ask any questions, don't make yourself noticed, but there's a boy there, Gendry. If anything happens to me - not that it will," He fixed him with a steely look. Ren said nothing. "Then can I trust you to sure that boy isn't caught up in it," Not knowing why an apprentice smith would be caught up in any business of significance, Ren just nodded. "Good lad," His uncle clapped him on the arm. "I'll see you at supper. You join us, tonight,"

Ren did know what Lord Stark was investigating; the letter from his mother had made that perfectly clear. The death of Jon Arryn had not been an accident, and his uncle was trying to uncover the truth. What some poor boy in the city had to do with any of that, Ren didn't know, but he found that he desperately wanted to.

He visited the shop later in the day. He had been in there before with Jaime, and later to pick up his famous lion-head helm, and Master Mott recognised him as Jaime Lannister's squire, eagerly approaching to see if he had another order from the richest family in Westeros. Ren said he was just there to get a nick in a sword fixed - it _did_ need to be fixed, just not necessarily from the finest armourer in the city - and brushed the man off with some vague comment hinting the shop may see their business some time in the future; that might not have worked had another customer not entered, a knight preparing for the upcoming tourney no doubt, and distracted him. As the two pored over various sketches and took measurements, Ren took the opportunity to enter the forge, glancing around. Men and boys were everywhere, hauling buckets of water, stoking fires and hammering out a cacophony of steel. Lord Stark had said he should look for an apprentice boy, but Ren had no idea what else.

"What do you want here?" A rather gruff voice asked him. Ren turned and took a double take. He had thought it was Loreon at a first glance, but his friend was taller, older and a little thinner in the face, with a more delicate nose and less sullen expression. But apart from that, this boy could be his twin. The same blue eyes stared out of his face, his mouth was set in the same sullen twist and he looked even more like the king than Loreon did. He had a King's Landing accent rather than one from the Westerlands, but the similarities were uncanny.

"Can you fix this?" Ren managed to get out, holding out the sword and speaking as normal automatically.

"Easy," The boy - he couldn't be more than a year younger than Ren himself - shrugged, taking the sword from him. "That'll be five silvers, for a good blade like this," Ren nodded, watching the boy work. He knew exactly why Lord Stark had sent him here, knew exactly why this boy could be in all sorts of trouble. Because if something happened to his uncle, something would likely have to have happened to King Robert, making Joffrey the king. Between that vicious little shit and his mother, no bastard of Robert Baratheon would live to even think the words rebellion.

"You look like someone I know," Ren said. He knew his uncle had told him not to ask questions, but he still wasn't sure how (or if) this boy linked into the matter of Jon Arryn's death. Because Lord Stark would hardly be going around the city looking for his old friend's bastards, someone or something had sent him here.

"Who's that then?" The boy, Gendry, he remembered, looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"Just one of my friends," Ren shrugged. The boy didn't look any less suspicious.

"I've seen you before," He said. "You were here with the Kingslayer," He seemed to remember himself then, muttering an unconvincing, "'Pologies, I meant Ser Jaime. You a cousin or something? You look quite Lannister,"

"Really?" Ren raised an eyebrow in amusement. "I'm Ser Jaime's squire. Stark, not Lannister. Well, Snow - I'm the Hand's sister's bastard," The boy gave a dark chuckle.

"Bastard? Me too, but I don't have no fancy lady for a mother,"

"Maybe not," Ren smiled tightly. "Your father could be highborn, for all you know," It was too tempting not to hint, there was no chance Gendry knew what he was talking about. The boy snorted.

"Would explain all these high-up lords poking around," He muttered. Ren's ears perked up.

"Lords?"

"Both Hands came to see me," He shrugged. "Lord Stark, and before him Lord Arryn, 'long with Lord Stannis," Lord _Arryn_? Ren understood Gendry was one of Robert's bastards, but that hardly warranted the Hand coming down personally. And that wasn't even mentioning Stannis. It didn't take a genius to work out who the boy's father was; anyone who had ever met Robert would be able to. Just like everyone knew Loreon was the king's son, even though he never wore anything with the Baratheon crest (when they were younger, they had joked that if he ever did, his aunt the queen would rip it off with her clawed talons).

"Strange," Ren said honestly, as the boy plunged the sword into cold water. He lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. "If anyone ever comes looking for you, anyone... unfriendly," He had the boy's full attention now, suspicious glare and all. "Don't go to the city guards or anyone like that. Try and find me. Renan Snow. Or," He paused, considering whether to say it. "Loreon Storm,"

"The king's bastard?" Gendry looked surprised.

"Yeah. Can't miss him, he's built like a house," Ren smiled faintly. "Not saying there will be trouble. But if there is..." He trailed off, taking the finished sword from the boy's slack grip. "Thanks," He dug out five silvers and handed them over with a tight smile.

* * *

It was the next morning that the realisation came to him.

He had been sparring in the yard, against Tommen. The boy was eleven now, and had lost most of the chubbiness he'd had as a younger child; he was still stocky, but that was more muscle than fat now. He would never be a great warrior - he still disliked having to hurt people, even in training, with blunted swords - but he would last in a fight against an average swordsman, having had Ren, Loreon and often his uncle, Ser Jaime, train with him at various points, along with other members of the Kingsguard. In time, he would grow to be better than average; he was only a boy, after all, and as Jaime had told Loreon in a rare moment of sternness, it wasn't normal for a boy of eleven to be able to beat men twice his age.

But looking at Tommen at afternoon, something was nagging at the back of his mind. Ren had just flicked the prince's training sword out of his hand, again, when he noticed the morning sunlight glinting off the boy's golden curls.

"Again?" Tommen was saying, picking up his sword, clearly tired but not letting his lack of enthusiasm show. The boy was good like that, knew what he had to do to get better no matter how much he didn't enjoy it. He looked up at Ren with those green eyes of his, and it suddenly struck him how little like his father Tommen looked.

Gendry Waters, Loreon, Edric Storm - who he'd met once when the king went to Storm's End, bring Loreon, Jaime and most of the Kingsguard - all had something in common, besides the fact they all shared a father. The girl in the Vale too, who his uncle had described as dark-haired. They _all_ had dark hair. All had blue eyes.

Tommen wiped his blonde curls out of his green eyes, and all Ren could do was stare.

"Ren?" The prince asked him, and Ren realised he'd never answered the boy's question.

"Yes," Ren said a little too sharply, shaking the thought off. "Yes. You need to work on the force of your blow. Your reactions are good, you're quite quick and you aim well, but your attacks are too weak," Despite the teaching, his mind was elsewhere. It felt dangerous to even think it, and it wasn't necessarily true anyway. Perhaps Lannister traits were stronger than Baratheon traits. _What about Loreon?_ his mind whispered, but he ignored it resolutely, pushing the thoughts away and suddenly feeling rather cold, despite the warm day, right in the pit of his stomach. He stepped back into his fighting stance, glancing at Tommen critically. "I've told you before. I'd rather bear a few bruises now than deal with the prince dying in battle because he was too craven to actually fight his foe," Tommen's eyes narrowed. There was a time where talk like that would've sent the boy off in tears; Ren had slowly increased it over time, and some anger was good to see in him now.

The boy lunged at him with a lot more force than before, and Ren smiled in satisfaction, spinning away from the blow and lashing out with one of his own; if he'd wanted to, the boy wouldn't have been able to block it, but he timed it just right that Tommen would be able to see it coming. He blocked it, just, but Ren was already striking again, giving the prince what would be a nasty bruise on the upper thigh. Tommen yelped, but instead of backing off - as was his typical reaction - he lashed out. Ren had underestimated the boy, and was too slow to move away from the blow he hadn't seen coming. Tommen caught him on the right forearm with surprising strength.

"Good," Ren smiled grimly. "Not if you're fighting me," Ren was left handed. "But that would've disarmed a lot men," Tommen looked pleased, which was unusual for him in the practice yard and just showed how he'd improved.

"You're doing well, little brother," Loreon came over. He was near a foot and a half taller than Tommen, broad-shouldered and just generally bulkier. The only facial features they shared was the elegant Lannister nose. "Your brother will be king, sitting on his arse giving orders, but everyone will know you as the one winning his battles for him," Ren laughed at the look of distaste on Tommen's face.

"Don't worry," He said. "We'll do all the fighting for you, if you want, give you the credit, which Joffrey will then steal," Even Tommen smiled at that.

"You were right about just hitting him," The boy said to them both. "He hasn't come near me since we arrived back here, not since the Trident and the direwolves," Loreon laughed, and Ren smiled in satisfaction.

"I'll get that story spread around the city," He said. "He'll be king one day, but everyone will know that his little brother - and sister, too, probably - can beat him into the dust any day,"

It was all very well laughing with Loreon and Tommen, but when Ren was alone polishing Jaime's armour for the tourney, it was a different matter. The king's three trueborn children look nothing like the king, nor do they look anything like the bastard son of said king and the queen's sister.

It could all be nothing. It could quite easily be nothing. Ren had no desire to even discuss this with anyone. If Lord Stark had seen Gendry, surely he had suspicions of his own, and wouldn't appreciate them being spoken aloud by his own nephew. There were eyes and ears everywhere, and words like that were practically a death sentence to speak if the wrong person overheard. It wasn't worth it, not for a theory that could potentially amount to nothing.

Although it did make sense. Fuck, Stannis and Lord Arryn had been to the armourers, to the brothel, and they both knew Loreon. That explained why Arryn had been killed, he knew the (hypothetical) truth, and someone had found out. It also explained Stannis' current self-exile on Dragonstone. But who could the queen have had an affair with long enough to produce three children? It wasn't like she had unlimited access to anyone. Cersei would never be left alone with a man who wasn't family. She would always be surrounded by her ladies, handmaids, various other courtiers, and even when she was alone there was always a member of the Kingsguard close by.

It really could only be a member of the Kingsguard, then. Not Jaime, for obvious reasons. Ren doubted that Boros Blount, old and fat, would be attractive to the proud, beautiful queen. Barristan Selmy was too honourable, and too old besides. Meryn Trant, again, was ugly, and Mandon Moore was too dead behind the eyes. Preston Greenfield, possibly, although he was rather dull, and last Ren had heard he was sleeping with a draper's wife. Arys Oakheart was looking like the most likely option so far, being young and reasonably good looking; he did seem honourable, but that could easily hide any number of things.

Ren shook his head. Honestly, did it even matter that much? So long as everyone else believed the children were Robert's, for all intents and purposes, they were. Ren would much rather some knight's bastard sat the Iron Throne masquerading as a Baratheon, than a war taking place that would tear the Seven Kingdoms in half. Because that would be the outcome. If the king found out Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen were not his, his rage would be terrifying. In all likelihood, he would execute the queen, and then where would they be? Lord Tywin would go to war over his grandchildren being disinherited alone, let alone his daughter's death. The fact was indisputable.

Although, if Robert were to declare Loreon his heir... Loreon was his favourite son, a grown man, capable and strong. Rather than waiting nearly two decades for the king to find a suitable new bride and bear him sons that grew to adulthood, was it possible that the easier route could be taken..? And then where would Lord Tywin be? He could enter a war against the rest of the Seven Kingdoms that he would surely lose through numbers alone, for a matter of pride, which would likely end in the destruction of his legacy and dreams of his grandchildren on the throne. Or he could accept that his younger daughter's bastard, a boy he had mostly ignored his whole life, was going to be king instead. It was hard to tell which direction he'd turn.

The possibilities were intriguing, but Ren was getting far too ahead of himself. He had suspicions, that was all, which had surely been voiced before by anyone who had seen Loreon anywhere near his trueborn siblings. For now, Ren would focus on the tourney, the melee, and winning. That was what squires were meant to be concerned about, wasn't it? Not plotting, murder and adultery. Tourneys, melees, winning.


	18. Tourney Knights

From where she stood, Morganna could hear the roar of the crowd, the splintering of lances and the thunder of hooves and metal. She was more than glad she was down here, not in the stands with the lords and ladies. With Morganna's uncle currently absent, and Septa Mordane preoccupied with getting Arya to sit still and behave, Morganna had been able to slip away with some vague excuse about the Princess wanting to see her. She hadn't, of course - the queen would hardly let _her_ sit with the royal family - and had instead made her way to her brother. Ren wasn't competing until the melee the next day, however his friend Loreon Storm was due to ride in the next few rounds, and he was here to assist Ser Jaime Lannister, who was also jousting.

They had a good view from here, even though it was a short way back from the tilts. Loreon was already in full armour astride his horse. Ren stood on the ground beside him, tall and lean in comparison, as Morganna stroked the nose of the beautiful steel grey destrier, a powerful beast, worthy even of her mother. She understood it had been a gift from the king for Loreon's seventeenth nameday. The queen can't have been happy about that.

Today was Morganna's twelfth birthday, and she was enjoying pretending the tourney was all in her honour. That morning she had received several gifts from her family; Sansa had made her an elegant green dress - Arya was credited with sewing on the fastenings at the back, with Septa Mordane's help - and Lord Stark had gifted her a new cloak, far lighter than her heavy northern furs and perfect for the southron climate. He had also carried a gift from her mother down from the North, a silver pendant that Morganna fell in love with immediately and was wearing now, as well as a present from Aileen (and supposedly Edrick) of an ornate hand-mirror made of bone.

She wished the rest of her family could be here now. Aileen wouldn't enjoy the tourney, but Edrick would. But Morganna wasn't exactly alone. She could pick out Sansa's red hair in the crowd from here, Jeyne Poole beside her, and then Arya and Septa Mordane; both of Morganna's cousins were excited for different reasons. Sansa loved the pageantry, the displays of gallantry and courage, whereas Arya was here for the blood and danger of the contest. Morganna was, as usual, somewhere in between. She didn't care for the giving of favours, but liked to show off by dressing up, and equally was excited by watching the tilts.

Of all the Winterfell men, only Jory remained in the competition even though they were still in the first round - Alyn and Harwin had both been unseated in their first matches - and Morganna found herself paying attention to the more likely contenders for the prize, helped by Ren and Loreon's careful commentary and assessments of all the other competitors. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain-That-Rides, was an obvious choice, though his brother Sandor, the Hound - still a big man but nowhere near the size of Gregor - seemed to have more skill, rather than brute strength alone, decimating his opponents with brutal efficiency. The young Loras Tyrell, as girlish as he looked with his brown curls and flowery armour, was also a clear talent. Morganna had laughed to see him present a blushing Sansa with a red rose; she had heard the crude rumours about the Knight of Flowers from Ren and his friends, but her cousin clearly hadn't. Other strong contenders were, of course, Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy, both in the white cloaks and armour of the Kingsguard.

But Loreon had yet to joust himself. Morganna did not know the young knight well, but from what she had seen of him, she understood why her brother considered him a close friend; Ren didn't trust easily, which said a lot. At a first glance, Loreon would appear to be the young Robert Baratheon reborn, however Morganna had noticed that he seemed somewhat more calculating than the king ever did, and did seem to try to treat people with respect. Where King Robert had been born the elder son of a great lord and had had opportunities handed to him on a plate his whole life, Loreon had had to work hard to be noticed, to be taken seriously, and that there was the difference. There was something in him that the king lacked; Morganna saw a certain glint in Loreon's eyes whenever he saw his father drunk in public, or making a fool of himself, or shirking responsibilities. It was even more pronounced when he was around Joffrey. It was easy to forget what family the young man's mother came from, unless you were sharp enough to catch the ambition in his stare.

Him and Ren were a well-matched pair.

It was Loreon's first match now. Ser Jaime had just won the previous tilt with a practically lazy ease, and Ren had left to take his horse.

"Good luck," Morganna looked up at her brother's friend with a grin. Loreon nodded in thanks, and in the eye slit of his visor she saw his eyes were set and determined. And then he was off. She had to admit he did look a fearsome sight. He normally looked older than his seventeen years, yet in his grey armour - the colour of an overcast sky - he looked even more so; he was big and muscled anyway, and the armour only accentuated that. His horse was decked in similar colours, greys and blacks. Morganna had to admire Loreon's nerve when she saw that the lance he carried, the only colour on him or his horse, bore stripes of red, gold and black. Lannister and Baratheon colours both. That was brave.

A glance up into the stands revealed the king roaring and laughing at his bastard son's choice of lance, as the queen pursed her lips. Morganna saw Myrcella smiling slightly beside her mother; she loved her half-brother/cousin dearly, as much as Morganna loved Ren, regardless that he was a bastard who her mother despised. Myrcella would like it down here on the ground, Morganna thought idly. Her new friend knew how to play the perfect little princess, but slowly Morganna was revealing more and more of what the girl was really like; adventurous, brave and fiercely clever.

Loreon was pitted against a household knight from a minor house. The man didn't even last the first tilt. One moment Loreon's grey horse were thundering towards him, the next moment the king's bastard had knocked him off his horse and into the dirt with barely even a splinter from his lance. The king and the crowd cheered as Loreon removed his helm and smiled widely, waving at the crowd and soaking up the praise. Queen Cersei glared.

"Jealous?" Morganna smirked at her brother as he came to stand silently next to her. She knew he wasn't one to enjoy attention like that.

"Hardly," Ren looked down at her, unsmiling, but there was amusement in his tone as Loreon rode out of the arena up to them. His horse hadn't broken a sweat.

The next match of note was Gregor Clegane's joust in the second round, but was memorable for different, more gory reasons. As Ser Clegane galloped towards his opponent, a young knight from the Vale, the huge man's lance rode up suddenly and struck the man under his gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, a mortal wound. The youth fell, the point of Clegane's lance buried in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before, staining his cloak and the sand around him muddy red. Morganna had seen a man die before, but they had been executions at the Dreadfort or Winterfell, beheading by her father's or Lord Stark's sword, never so brutally and unexpectedly. She watched with an appalled kind of fascination, even as Loreon swore and Ren's lips pressed together into a thin line just like their mother would've done.

Morganna was struck by how... pointless it seemed. If you're going to die in a horrible way like that, at least on a battlefield your death would count for something, you'd be remembered and mourned as a hero. Whereas this was meaningless, just entertainment; that young knight would be forgotten before the day was out. Sure enough, men came and carried the body away, a boy with a spade ran onto the field and shovelled dirt over the bloody spot, and just like that the jousts continued. Like it never happened. She mentioned that to Ren, who shrugged.

"He knew what he was getting in for," Her brother said, rather coldly, she thought. "He shouldn't have been jousting in this company if he wasn't good enough,"

Jory Cassel lost after two more tilts, by a free rider named Lother Brune. Renly Baratheon was unhorsed by the Hound, Sandor Clegane, so violently that one of the golden antlers snapped of his helm; the king's brother laughed and gave the antler to Clegane, who merely threw it into the crowd, nearly starting a riot. Barristan Selmy fell to the Kingslayer much later on in the day, one of the last matches, for a place in the semifinals, but it was a very hard won match. Loras Tyrell had won against opponent after opponent, eventually facing Gregor Clegane. It was almost laughable, seeing the pretty young knight, only sixteen, on his pretty white mare covered in blue flowers, facing down the Mountain and his enormous destrier. However, Morganna realised what Loras was doing when Ren gave a short laugh.

"His mare's in heat," Her brother said, and sure enough, Clegane's stallion was clearly getting restless. "The Knight of Flowers has his thorns," He seemed rather appreciative of Tyrell's strategy, yet at the same time scornful of his need to win through tricks.

"Bloody Tyrell," Loreon just scowled. "It's a smart move, but if I end up against him I won't be able to ride this one," He nodded to his own beautiful stallion.

Loras won the match - though whether he cheated or not was arguable - which the Mountain clearly did not care for. Clegane yelled for his sword, and beheaded his screaming horse with one stroke. Morganna winced at that - it was somehow more horrible than seeing the knight die earlier, and there was a lot more blood - as the Mountain swung around to face the Knight of Flowers, knocking him off his pretty mare. She was sure then that they were about to watch Loras Tyrell be split in two, but then out of nowhere the Hound lunged forward to intercept his brother's blade. The rumours the two hated each other were clearly true, as there was genuine loathing in the younger Clegane's eyes as he fought his brute of a brother, keeping pace against the larger man with a relentless savagery that should've killed most men. They only stopped when the king yelled for them to cease their madness, and Gregor stormed away in fury.

Loreon won every match put against him, with apparent ease. That left the final four of Jaime Lannister versus Loras Tyrell, and Sandor Clegane versus Loreon Storm. The jousting would continue the next day, along with the melee. Morganna wasn't sure who the crowd favourite was between Ser Loras and Loreon. It definitely wasn't the scowling, scar-faced Clegane, despite his earlier act of rage-fuelled heroism against his brother that had earned him a few minutes of favour. Nor was it the infamous Kingslayer, beyond the common women swooning over his good looks and golden armour.

* * *

Lord Stark didn't even join them for the feast later that evening. To Morganna's disgust, she and Sansa were all seated at the high table for the feast. That in itself wasn't the problem. The problem was the fact that not only did Loreon and Ren have to sit away from them with the household knights and minor nobles, not only was Arya considered too young to attend, but to Sansa's right sat Prince Joffrey.

The prince was positively sickening the entire night - someone had obviously told him to make up to Sansa for the incident at the Trident - and Sansa lapped it all up. Morganna couldn't help herself muttering several snide comments to her cousin during the feast when the false sweetness got far too much, earning glares from Sansa. It was quite funny, watching Joffrey try to keep his facade in place when he clearly wanted to snap back at her. One particular favourite of hers (concerning something unflattering about men who hit little girls) had even made Sandor Clegane, standing guard over Joffrey's shoulder, give a dark snort of laughter.

"Gods, you've got a mouth on you, girl," The man had grunted.

"Which would be improved if it stayed shut," Joffrey had scowled petulantly, and Sansa had primly agreed with him. Morganna had just grinned in a deliberately infuriating way, getting up from her chair with her usual swagger, which she knew irritated most people, septa's especially. Septa Mordane tutted.

"I'm off to find better company," She said. "I want to enjoy my birthday,"

"Morganna, sit down!" The old woman hissed through gritted teeth, clearly angry and embarrassed. Why? It wasn't like anyone important was looking at them. "It is an honour to sit this high. What would Lord Stark say to this rudeness?" Morganna just acted like she hadn't heard, completely unconcerned. She swept down from the high table, moving through the mingling people, intending on finding her brother, curious if any of his friends would recognise her as the squire from that night in the city. She was distracted, however, by Ser Barristan Selmy stood in her path, talking to someone about what a shame it was that Elbert Arryn couldn't be here to joust, as he was a fine horseman. She waited until they were finished talking, and the old knight turned away, before approaching him.

"Ser Barristan," She got his attention, acting the innocent little lady for now, bobbing a quick curtsey.

"My lady," The old knight bowed his head respectfully, and she smiled, gracious for now. She didn't forget her mother's words, the awful look in her eyes, from the stable at Winterfell as she told her how the Mad King had brutalised her, and none of the _noble_ Kingsguard lifted a finger to help her.

"It's an honour to meet you, Ser," She kept her anger and dislike from rising to the surface quite well. She could be as good a lady as Myrcella, when she wanted to be. But she wasn't in the best of moods, which was perhaps why she had approached the old knight in the first place.

"Forgive me," He said apologetically. "Are you Lady St - Lady Bolton's daughter?"

"Yes, Ser," _He's wondering how much I know_. She let a slight edge creep into her smile, and her tone. "I'm Morganna Bolton. Lady Rosennis is my mother,"

"You look a lot like her," The knight said, and Morganna raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Do I?" All she had from her mother was dark hair and grey eyes, as well as a slightly longer than average face. Her mother said she looked like her dead aunt, Lyanna, but Morganna had seen paintings of Lyanna and she didn't think there was much resemblance there at all beyond the colouring. Morganna wasn't sure who she looked like in truth, for she definitely did not take after her father. Ser Barristan looked somewhat taken aback by her blunt tone, frowning slightly.

"No, I suppose you don't," He said slowly. "I remember you father's face more clearly. He advised the king to kill me, you know, after the battle of the Trident. I'll remember his face for a long time," He seemed to realise then that he was talking to a twelve year old highborn girl, and shut his mouth. There was a pause.

"My mother remembers your face," She said suddenly. She didn't regret it, exactly - the shocked look on his wrinkled face was worth it - but she barely knew the man. He was also the most respected knight in the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Her mouth continued of its own accord, one part of her urging it on as another part (the part named common sense) screamed to stop and shut up. "She remembers you and your sworn brothers doing nothing to stop Aerys Targaryen attacking her," There was a heavy silence. Over his shoulder, Morganna saw Jaime Lannister glancing their way in interest from where he stood behind the king a short distance away. She wondered if he could hear them or not.

"I... regret how your mother was treated," The old man suddenly looked very tired, though he didn't back down in any way. "But the sworn brothers of the Kingsguard live to serve the king. No matter who or what that king may be,"

"Not always," Morganna said pointedly, with a glance behind King Robert. The old knight straightened up then, actual anger crossing his expression. He opened his mouth to reply, but Morganna surprised him and herself by turning on her heel and walking off. Someone laughed behind her, but she didn't turn to see who it was as she saw her brother sat somewhere near the back.

Ren and Loreon were more than welcome company. Ren had managed to sneak Lizzie into the tent, not that anyone cared much given how many people were in here already, and the girl sat on his lap to make room for Morganna between Ren and Loreon. Sat in between those two, none of the others dared say anything remotely inappropriate, and she had to say she was enjoying it. Whereas Ren had been taking away every cup of wine after the first that Morganna tried to sneak past him, the king had been getting louder and louder as the night went on, consuming more and more drink. At one point he staggered to his feet, anger clear on his red face.

"No," He thundered, a goblet of wine in one hand, which sloshed all over the place as he swayed. "You do not tell me what to do, woman," He roared at the queen. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!" Everyone was staring, all conversation having died out. No one moved to interfere. The queen's face was a mask, but she was unmistakably furious as she rose from the table with admirable dignity, gathered her skirts and stormed off without a word, servants trailing behind. For a horrible moment it looked like the king would follow her, and no one would move to stop him, but then his brother Renly came forward, smiling like nothing was wrong and letting Jaime Lannister, who had started to step forward, move back to his place without anyone noticing.

"You've spilled your wine, Robert," Renly said, getting the king's attention. "Let me bring you a fresh goblet," And that was the end of that.

At some point Morganna noticed that Sansa was gone from the high table, but had managed to sneak several gulps of wine past her watchful brother, so was feeling slightly too light-headed to care, apart from laughing at the sight of Septa Mordane asleep with her head on the table. As she glanced in that direction, she saw Myrcella, who made a small 'come here' gesture to her; now the queen was gone, and the king (and everyone else) was drunk, there should be no problem. Morganna made her way to the table, sitting down in the vacant seat beside her friend. They talked and laughed for a time - Myrcella had gotten her a ring as a birthday present, fairly simple but lovely all the same - but then Myrcella's father, the king, noted her presence.

"You're Ross' daughter, aren't you," He said, in a hard-to-understand voice, thick with wine. His face was an alarming shade of red, and he had split his drink down his doublet. Behind him, Jaime Lannister stood looking mildly bored, in his usual way, although his eyes showed interest.

"Yes, your Grace," Morganna nodded politely, bowing her head. "Morganna Bolton,"

"Let's get a look at you," Morganna's eyes widened as the king grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. He stank of wine. "Heard you look like my Lyanna. I can see it... plain as day," From what her mother had told her, no one could call her aunt 'my Lyanna'. And unless Morganna had been looking at a portrait of a different woman before, she definitely did not look look like the long-dead Lyanna Stark. Hells, she even looked more like Myrcella than her aunt. "A true beauty,"

The king didn't let go of her face. If anything, he held on tighter, face staring at hers. Morganna didn't know what to do, it was getting rather ridiculous. But one did not just _tell_ the king anything. She settled for glaring at him as he stared at her, trying to imitate her mother's best cold stare - the king left _her_ alone, after all - but it didn't seem to have any effect.

"Your grace," Jaime Lannister cleared his throat pointedly, and the king turned to glare at him, thankfully letting go of Morganna's face. She quickly turned away, taking a drink so she didn't have to look at him.

"Why must you always... interrupt me, King-Kingslayer?" Robert was grumbling irritably. "You... you did that when. I ask-asked Ross to... to marry me," Morganna choked on her drink, Jaime Lannister's eyebrows rose and even Myrcella's eyes widened. "Now you... you won't let me talk to... her daughter,"

"You weren't planning on proposing to Lady Bolton as well, were you?" The Kingslayer's voice was extremely dry, and he was lucky the king was so drunk or he might've taken more offence. "She might be a little too young," The king was about to reply, but then Myrcella cut in, drawing his attention away.

"Father," The princess spoke up, smiling sweetly as usual but with a slight edge to her tone. "Lady Bolton mentioned she was feeling unwell earlier. We were just about to return to the castle," The king blinked, only then seeming to notice his daughter's presence, letting go of Morganna.

"Yes, yes," He waved a hand, eyes unfocused. He seemed to have slipped into melancholy after his previous rambunctious, then angry, mood.

"Your Grace," Morganna curtseyed as they stood, but the king didn't seem to notice. Myrcella took her arm and they left, several guards following them as a safe escort back to the castle. The moment they were out of sight of the table, Ren appeared at her shoulder like a shadow, having clearly been watching the whole scene. He fell in step beside them, expression dark; even without the escort of guards, Morganna thought it likely everyone would move out of their way from that alone.

"What was that?" He nodded backwards at the king, sounding rather angry and not seeming to care that the princess was right there.

"I don't know," Morganna snapped back, annoyed by his tone. "He just said I look like Aunt Lyanna," She wasn't going to mention that bit about asking their mother to marry him. When in hells had _that_ happened? "Why do you care? The king didn't mean anything by it, he's roaring drunk. Sorry," She cast half a glance at Myrcella, who smiled faintly, wisely keeping quiet.

"You're naive," Ren said flatly. 'He wouldn't have done that if Lord Stark was around, believe me,"

"Ren," Morganna was annoyed by him talking down to her, but nodded pointedly at Myrcella, not really caring about propriety herself - it was unlikely the princess would mind - but wanting to shut her brother up. Ren looked angry still, but fell silent, and was silent the whole way back to the litters that would take them back to the Red Keep.

"Make sure you don't go wandering off anywhere," Her brother warned her as they got into a litter and he bade them farewell. "There's all sorts out tonight, go straight back to the tower,"

"Yes," Morganna rolled her eyes. She would've wanted to stay longer, but after Myrcella's quick lie, they couldn't exactly do that. "Go and drink some more, and find Lizzie,"

"You're eleven," Ren looked amused by that. "Twelve, sorry. You shouldn't be giving advice like that,"

"Trust you to forget my birthday," She said, laughing. "You still haven't given me your present,"

"Later," Her brother promised. "Off you go,"

She and Myrcella started talking the moment the curtains of the litter closed.

"Did you know about your father and my mother?" Morganna asked her.

"No," The princess pulled a face she never would've pulled where anyone could see. "I don't think anyone does, you saw how surprised my uncle Jaime looked that he mentioned it,"

"I'll ask Ren about it tomorrow, after the tourney's over," Morganna decided. "Do you think - no," She broke off.

"What is it?"

"I was wondering if the king could be Ren's father, but the timings don't match up,"

"When was your brother born?" Myrcella asked. "Loreon was born nine months after the tourney at Harrenhal, but your brother is younger, isn't he?"

"Over a year,"

"Lucky him," Morganna looked up in question at her friend's comment. Myrcella explained. "Joffrey's definitely not his brother, then," They both laughed at that.

* * *

The next day dawned rather cloudy, but the crowd clamouring to the tourney were unaffected. The final tilts of the jousting were soon underway. Jaime Lannister - whose dazzling smile was still present, but a lot more focused and determined than in previous rounds - beat Loras Tyrell in the first round of the semi-finals. The Kingslayer's victory smile after knocking the Knight of Flowers into the dirt was more satisfied than the cat that got the cream; Loreon had snorted at Morganna's analogy, whilst Ren had just muttered darkly that he was relieved he wouldn't have to deal once again with the foul mood the knight had been in after losing to Tyrell last time.

Loreon had got considerably louder as the match against Sandor Clegane had drawn closer. The man was formidable, even bigger than he was, and the young knight's bravado was clearly to make up for any nerves he might be feeling. After all, if he lost it was in front of his father and what seemed like half the kingdom. If he was a prince, he would've got many more chances to prove himself. As a bastard, not so much. As Loreon grew louder, Ren grew quieter. They were well-matched, but different, Morganna decided.

This round was fast-paced and brutal, more so than any other, even the match between Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy. There were more tilts and broken lances than Morganna could keep count of - the pile was large enough to climb - and although Loreon won, it was more by chance than anything as he and the Hound were so evenly matched. Clegane took the loss in his usual darkly amused manner, shrugging and stomping off; to drown himself in a vat of beer, as Morganna had heard a squire chuckling (very quietly). That left Loreon versus Jaime Lannister.

This match was equally as hard fought. Ser Jaime clearly wasn't pulling any blows just because Loreon was his nephew, and both had been riding brilliantly for the whole tourney. Lances splintered again and again, the thunder of hooves seemed never-ending, until finally the victor emerged, and the Kingslayer picked himself up from the floor with good humour, shaking Loreon's hand as he rode to claim the prize, the crowd cheering and clapping their new favourite, the underdog, the handsome young bastard knight who had defeated the Kingsguard and famous warriors to win the prize of twenty thousand gold dragons.

Morganna returned to sit with her uncle and Sansa for lunch. Arya was oddly absent, and Lord Stark merely said that she was having a dancing lesson, which was more than strange, but Morganna had to put it out of her mind as they went to watch melee together. The competitors, forty men ranging from freeriders to knights to squires like Ren, all rode in. Their weapons were blunted, but enough damage could be done. The king, in the end, did not enter. Morganna suspected Lord Stark had a hand in that. Her brother did not stand out in the slightest. Plain armour, dark colours, a sword that was unremarkable until you looked closer and realised it was extremely well-made.

Ren had chosen his horse well, she noted; whilst he wasn't as good a rider as their mother, he clearly knew what he was doing. Thoros of Myr, the red priest, was competing using his flaming sword, which spooked several mounts and cost their riders the prize. Ren's horse was nothing special to look at, bred for practicality rather than looks. It was rather ugly to tell the truth, and not so fast, but was amazingly agile and barely batted an eyelid at the clashing of steel, shouting and fire.

Her brother chose a good strategy, too. Instead of diving right into the middle of the fighting like most of the more confident fighters, he hung back. The first few minutes were when the highest proportion of men fell, he had told Morganna earlier that day, which was clearly true. In the first ten minutes, over half the competitors had been weeded out, leaving the arena battered and bruises, more often than not with broken bones and injured horses. Ren stayed around the edges, trying not to draw any attention to himself. Whenever anyone tried their luck with him, however, he disarmed them astonishingly quickly and efficiently. Soon, as the numbers continued to fall, the crowd did begin to notice him simply because he was one of the only fighters left who wasn't an obvious favourite.

The other fighters seemed to notice him then as the only easy target left. That was when the fight began for him in full. Two of them came at him at once, big, muscled men that must've weighed twice as much, and with only slightly more difficulty than he had dealt with most of the others, they too were disarmed, one on the ground groaning, and the crowd roared in approval. Sansa was gasping at every blow struck even slightly near her cousin, and Lord Stark was sat stony-faced and tense. Morganna was not worried at all. She had absolute faith in her brother, he wouldn't let fools like these defeat him.

Ren was not just on the defensive now, he was attacking, skulking around like a lean shadow, picking men seemingly at random. These last fighters were clearly more talented than the rest to have lasted so long - many were knights, even, or if not then hardened freeriders and mercenaries - and all easily had more strength than her brother. But although strength was important, and would've won them most fights, Ren fought completely differently. He fought like Jaime Lannister, and Arthur Dayne before him, with a deadly sort of elegance that couldn't entirely be learned. He didn't win these with the same ease as he had the first, but he always won in the end.

It came down to the last two. The strong-looking knight seemed rather surprised to be facing this young man half his size, but didn't make the same mistake many of the others had of underestimating him. They dismounted for this last battle, and the fight began, and the knight was extremely good to be keeping up for this long. Both of them were tiring - the melee had gone on hours - the knight's swings were getting clumsy, Ren seemed a little slower on his feet, but in the end it was Morganna's bastard brother whose sword disarmed the armoured knight, knocking him to the ground in a well-timed movement as the big man staggered slightly from the blow. The crowd roared. Ren didn't help the man up, and only nodded to the crowd, raising a hand in thanks once, before looking straight up at the king.

Robert was on his feet, bellowing his approval.

"A fine outcome for this tourney," The king laughed uproariously, as everyone settled down. "A Baratheon bastard takes the joust, whilst a Stark one wins the melee," He raised a hand. "Renan Snow, winner of ten thousand gold dragons!" Ren nodded in thanks, but Robert wasn't done. "Kingslayer!" He roared. "Why isn't that boy a knight yet?" Jaime Lannister, stood behind him, shrugged, saying something but Morganna was too far away to hear. "Well we can't have a squire as the champion," The king scoffed, getting to his feet and walking down the steps. Morganna was surprised they didn't bend under his weight. The man entered the arena, facing her brother. "Give me your sword, boy, and kneel,"

"Gods," Her uncle smiled faintly, as Sansa practically swooned in excitement at seeing her cousin become a proper southron knight, even if he was a bastard. Ren wiped the bloodied steel on his cloak, handing it to Robert hilt-first, and kneeling in the sand. His face hadn't changed. Morganna supposed he had always hoped to be knighted in a real battle, given that he was prone to mocking so-called 'tourney knights' like Loras Tyrell.

"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave," The king said in his great booming voice. "In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women..." And so the knight's vows were said, and her brother rose as Ser Renan Snow. A few quiet words were said between him and the king, and then Ren nodded respectfully in thanks, before leaving the arena.

When he left the arena, Morganna hurried down to meet him, not waiting for the rest of her family to keep up. She saw her brother just as Lizzie Lewis flung herself at him, kissing him passionately. He put her down, arm sliding around her waist, only to be clapped on the back by an enthusiastic Loreon Storm, as several more eager squires followed behind, mostly being ignored.

"Ren!" Morganna grinned. "I'd hug you, but you're covered in blood," He was also very sweaty, and likely exhausted. Ren looked her, not smiling, but his eyes alive with... something. "You won," She said, when he said nothing.

"I told you," Was his reply, with a note of satisfaction. Morganna had never doubted him herself, but she didn't think she was the only one he was talking to.

"I should call you Ser, now," She laughed. "About time. You've been a squire for _ages_," That got a laugh out of him.

"Sixteen is young to be knighted," Ren said, shaking his head at her. "I beat him," He nodded at Loreon, who frowned.

"How hard did that last one hit you on the head?" The young man asked. "I've been a knight for months now, since before Joffrey's birthday tourney,"

"You're older than me, though," Ren smirked slightly. "I'm only just sixteen, you were nearly seventeen,"

"Gods sake," Loreon rolled his eyes, shoulder barging Ren, who was still amused.

"Boy," Jaime Lannister was approaching them, cutting a path through the surrounding people as they saw his Kingsguard armour. His smile, as usual, cut like a knife, but seemed genuine as he spoke to Ren. Lizzie stepped away from Ren slightly as he neared them, eyes cast down to the ground. "You might be useless at the tilts, but I suppose that performance makes up for it. Between the two of you, you might just get a decent warrior. Stick together in battle, perhaps?"

"Thanks," Her brother said flatly, but he clearly appreciated the sarcasm more than the flurry of compliments and congratulations. "But I think the proper form of address is Ser Renan now, Ser, not boy,"

"Little shit," Ser Jaime remarked, smirk growing. "I suppose I'll have to find someone else to scrub my armour and polish my boots. You know, the important work,"

"Tommen?" Loreon suggested, not joking, and Ser Jaime looked at him, tilting his head slightly.

"Hm," He considered. "That's not a bad idea. You two have already toughened the boy up a little. Although you can be the one to suggest it to my sweet sister," Loreon snorted; the idea was ludicrous.

* * *

The feast celebrating the end of the tourney went on well into the night. The next morning, Morganna was woken by a knock on her bedroom door. Opening it revealed her brother stood there. Of course he was up this early after such a late night.

"Don't you sleep?" She asked incredulously.

"I've come to give you your present," He said, ignoring her question. He held out the bundle of rags in his hands. "Unwrap it. _Carefully_," Morganna did so, and was astonished to find that they concealed a knife. A proper dagger, not an eating knife. It was nothing fancy, a small steel blade with a plain bone handle, but was clearly very well made.

"Ren, what - ?"

"Don't show it to anyone," He said. "You shouldn't have this, really. Sorry it's so plain, I had it made by a 'prentice smith before I won ten thousand gold dragons. Just... keep it on you,"

"Is something going to happen?"

"No," He said firmly. "But you never know. I thought you might enjoy it, anyway. Mother always carries a knife - "

"She does?"

"She has done since the rebellion," He smiled faintly at that. "I might be paranoid, but I'd feel better knowing you had it,"

"Fair enough," Morganna hugged him. "Thank you," His words about their mother had reminded her that she still needed to ask him if he knew about the king's proposal to her, whenever that may have been. Now didn't seem like a good time, however, so she kept quiet.


	19. Grey Lady

The news was all around the court almost as soon as it had happened, as most important things tended to be here, although it wasn't like anyone involved had bothered to keep their voices down. As far as Ren had heard it - from, but not limited to, a serving maid, stable boy, several squires and Renly Baratheon himself, who had been laughing loudly about the matter in a courtyard - the Hand had resigned, only slightly before the furious king ordered (yelled) his dismissal, in protest against killing Aerys Targaryen's exiled daughter, pregnant with a Dothraki horselord's child.

Ren understood where his uncle was coming from, he really did. It wasn't a pleasant subject matter even considering the murder of a young girl, only a year older than his own sister Aileen, particularly one who was with child. Daenerys Targaryen had even not proven to be a threat yet, although by her very existence she was a potential one, and had been her whole life. Ren also understood Lord Stark's distaste at sending a nameless assassin to do his dirty work for him, he'd feel a similar way if it were up to him. He wasn't sure if that was a Northern principle, or just one learned from all the people he'd grown up with. Jaime was another one who would insist on swinging the sword himself, although that was more a matter of pride than one of respect. Both men's motivations - ironically, considering they hated each other - were also a matter of honour.

Despite all this, however, the girl had to die. It wasn't a nice or easy solution, but it was a practical one. Daenerys might not be a threat yet, but who knew where they'd be in a year, five years, even ten? Ren would willingly go and stab the girl in the heart himself if it eliminated the possibility of forty thousand Dothraki screamers crossing the Narrow Sea and wrecking havoc, destroying the Seven Kingdoms like they had wiped out so many cultures and civilisations in Essos, killing and raping for the sake of killing and raping, blood for the sake of blood. And as his mother would say, the Targaryen's blood itself was tainted with madness and cruelty, fed by power and unfit to rule. His mother was not an unreasonable woman, and had good reasons to hate. No dragon would ever sit the Iron Throne whilst Rosennis Stark lived, that was for sure. If Daenerys ever became queen, Ren wouldn't put it past his mother to kill the girl herself.

But what was done was done. Robert would send assassins after the Targaryens regardless of his friend's views, as Lord Stark was Hand of the king no longer. Which, in all honesty, was a blessing, given the nature of what the man was investigating. Continuing down that route would end in chaos one way or another. Best that didn't happen whilst Sansa, Arya and Morganna would be caught right in the middle of it all. Initially Ren had enjoyed having his family here, strange as it had been to have his two worlds meet, but now it was increasingly seeming to be too much of a risk. If he was alone, it would be fairly easy for him to slip out of the city unnoticed if it came to it, but it wasn't so easy with an entire household and three young, highborn girls. Allow his family to be shipped off back to Winterfell, far out the way of everything, and then let the whole court implode.

Ren had learned not to rely completely on court gossip, so had gone to the Tower of the Hand to try to find his uncle, to ask him himself what had happened. It couldn't have just been a simple argument to have the king removing his closest friend from office, the one person save perhaps his brothers and Loreon who Robert actually gave a shit about in this place.

Upon arriving at the Tower of the Hand, though, Ren was surprised to find that none of the Starks were even there. Arya was probably off having her dancing lessons; he was still surprised not only that she'd agreed to have dancing lessons, but that his tomboyish cousin actually seemed to be _enjoying_ them, going for hours every day and talking excitedly about her dancing master every time he saw her. Sansa would be with the Septa and her friend from Winterfell, the dark haired girl, Jeyne. Morganna was likely with the princess. The two had grown to be even closer friends in the months they had been in the city. Which was unfortunate, given the suspicions Ren was starting to have about the queen's children. Another reason his sister should be far away when things kicked off.

It was Lord Stark's whereabouts that troubled him now, however. His uncle had supposedly left the small council chambers in a fury with the king's angry words at his back, and should be here, wound up and making preparations to leave for the North as soon as possible. But he wasn't anywhere to be found, and Ren checked the whole tower. He probably didn't need to be looking around quite so intently - it was unlikely that his uncle was hiding under the desk - but was curious, and the big heavy book on the desk in the Hand's solar couldn't help but catch his eye. It hardly seemed like material for light reading, even if you enjoyed books, which he knew his uncle did not. All in all, an odd thing to keep out. Out of curiosity, Ren glanced at the cover. _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms_, _by Grand Maester Malleon_. Well that looked absolutely anything but interesting. Why would Lord Stark be reading that? He was hardly someone to care about the lives of long-dead lords and ladies.

With nothing to do but wait for his uncle to come back, Ren opened the book part way in, turning a few pages, and saw that it truly was just a description of every single member of each Great House; their name, when they lived and their appearance. Gods, that was truly it. Why anyone would dedicate time to reading - let alone writing - this book was beyond him. It didn't look like there was anything entered sooner than a hundred or so years ago.

Ren had opened it onto the Baratheon chapter, and scanned the text to see if there was anything he was missing. There had to be some reason why the thing was here, and sure enough, after several pages, there was. He soon realised exactly why Lord Stark had picked this book out, and the realisation was not a welcome one. Barely noticing that he was slowly sinking down into the chair - there was probably some sort of rule against a bastard sitting in the Hand's chair, but no one was there to complain - Ren turned to the beginning of the chapter and quickly flicked through each page. The names of long-dead lords and ladies flew past his eyes, forgotten as soon as he read them, but it was impossible, once you were looking for it, not to see that every single person born into House Baratheon was listed as 'black of hair'. _Gods, I was right_.

To make sure, Ren turned back in the book, now searching for the name Lannister. Gowen Baratheon married Tya Lannister ninety years ago... their son had black hair. Even earlier than that, a Baratheon girl married a Lannister lord... their three sons and one daughter were all black-haired. Every single example, going back to Aegon's conquest and the formation of House Baratheon, whenever a Baratheon had married a Lannister, the children always had jet black hair, and usually blue eyes. Until Cersei Lannister and Robert.

There was no way this was a coincidence, not with Ren's own closest friend as living proof of the queen's adultery. Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen were not the king's children.

What to do now?

On the one hand, Joffrey, despite only being thirteen, was a cunt who would drive the kingdom into ruin if he ever became king. The little shit had made countless mocking comments and insults about Ren's mother, and lack of a father - not to mention what he said to Loreon, his own brother (or cousin, really) - and Ren truly wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire.

The viciously satisfying irony that the supposed prince was a bastard himself hadn't escaped him. He could just see the look on Joffrey's face if he found out, and smirked at the thought.

On the other hand, Tommen was nothing like his elder brother. Ren actually liked Tommen. He'd all but taught him to use a sword, seeing him grow from a chubby little crybaby who was constantly bullied by his brother, into a boy more doggedly determined than most, who had reasonable skill with a sword and had actually learned to stand up to Joffrey. Myrcella, too, was nothing like her twin. Ren didn't know her well, but by all accounts (well, Morganna's) the princess was witty, kind and clever, with an adventurous streak. If Joffrey went down, so did his brother and sister. Ren had no idea what the king would do to them if he knew they weren't his. It could be anything from sending them to Casterly Rock to live out their lives in peace and quiet, to sticking their heads on pikes on the walls of the Red Keep, next to their mother's. Either way, their lives would likely be ruined.

It would be easy to go to Lord Stark and tell him what he'd realised. Lord Stark would then doubtlessly go to the king. The link would be made with Jon Arryn's death - surely the queen had him killed for investigating the children, as who else would have reason to want such an old man dead when he was nearing the end of his life anyway? - and the Lannisters would fall from grace in court and Westeros itself.

And that would surely mean war.

Ren had made his mind up already. It was better to have a bastard (in every sense of the word) on the throne than have the respective fury of Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon tear the kingdom apart. For now, he would keep quiet. Although surely his uncle was close to figuring it out himself. He had the book, he'd seen Robert's bastards, and there was surely more he knew that Ren didn't. The only reason Lord Stark hadn't seen it already was because he'd been distracted with managing Robert's kingdom for him, as well as every other thing that had come up since they got here. But now he was Hand no longer. Which meant Ren's problem now was to stop him working out the truth before they returned North, which they inevitably would, and soon.

He should write to his mother. Someone more important than a newly made bastard-knight should know, and he trusted her not to do anything rash. Who else could he trust to do the same? Loreon? Ren wasn't sure. Whilst he could normally restrain his friend's more impulsive tendencies, this was hardly a normal situation. If Cersei's children were all bastards, that did make Loreon the heir to the Iron Throne. He was the king's eldest son, born from two powerful noble houses - the exact same houses as the princes and princess - he was strong, capable, charismatic, loved by the commons after all those tourneys he'd excelled in, and even somewhat experienced in real fighting given the number of petty bandits groups they had gone out to dispel as squires to members of the Kingsguard.

Loreon would make a better king than Joffrey for sure. That didn't say much - a decomposing severed head would make a better king than Joffrey - but he would also make a better king than his father. Ren knew that Loreon liked Robert, respected him as a warrior even though his skills had gone slightly to seed in the last few years, but he knew his friend well enough to see the looks of disdain in his eyes when his father got completely drunk in public, or blew off his responsibilities as king to fuck a whore with little to no discretion, or steadily plunged the throne into more and more debt with all the money he spent on tourneys. Loreon took after his father's family in looks and temper, but he was just Lannister enough to have that ambition, hidden and forbidden though it might be, those quiet thoughts that he could do it better if someone, at some point, gave him the chance.

Ren felt himself be tempted.

It was a dangerous thought. If he could find a way to bring down Joffrey, ensuring Tommen and Myrcella wouldn't be killed for it, and minimising the chance of a war, then who knew... Because Loreon was as much Tywin Lannister's grandson as Joffrey was. However, orchestrating such a situation without starting a war would be nigh on impossible. Once again, Ren was thinking ahead. He quickly penned a letter to his mother, hoping his uncle wouldn't miss a sheet of parchment, and got up from the Hand's chair, setting off to find Jaime so it could be sent without any prying eyes. No one could read this, he couldn't risk giving it to Pycelle. It was stupid and risky enough writing it down at all, a death sentence if he was caught, but if he didn't get any more advice on what to do with this information he was likely to follow his own ideas, and his worst, more ambitious instincts were already nudging him towards a course of action that was almost certainly the wrong thing to do.

Jaime wasn't at the training yard, nor the White Sword Tower, and when Ren asked his fellow Kingsguard Ser Arys Oakheart if the knight was on duty that afternoon, he was given a negative answer. A passing serving maid had stopped, then, and to his surprise told him that Jaime had packed a bag. He was a Kingsguard and the king was here, where in hells would he be going? Ren went to investigate the stables to see if his horse was there, only to find that it was gone. He asked a stableboy about it, who had told of how half an hour ago the Kingslayer had stormed down to the yard in a rage, yelling for his horse to be saddled and taking over himself when it took too long. Near two dozen Lannister men had been with him, all armed and armoured, with saddlebags of packs and provisions.

What the hell was going on? With a bad feeling in mind, Ren returned to the Tower of the Hand, speeding up when he saw a flurry of activity around the base of the tower. Two men were being carried up the narrow stairs by Stark guardsmen, both appearing to be unconscious, as two more men in Stark livery, clearly dead, were laid out on the ground. A dozen or so goldcloaks hung around the base of the tower.

"Hey," Ren got their attention, walking over. "What's happening here?"

"High lords quarrelling. The lion bit the wolf's tail," One of them chuckled, until his companion elbowed him in the side pointedly.

"That's the Hand's bastard, Martyn," He muttered. "You know, Snow. The one that won the melee,"

"Shit," Martyn swore eloquently. "No offence meant, Ser," Ren just waved him off, not even bothering to correct him when he said Lord Stark was his father.

"What happened?"

"It was Lord Littlefinger what called us," One of them said. "We found Lord Eddard in the gutter, his horse fell in the fighting and crushed his leg. He got himself out, was trying to crawl over to one of his men what died," He waved a hand to the two bodies lying there, which were just getting covered with a dirty sheet, and Ren tried to pick out who they were but it was impossible from here. He hoped it wasn't anyone he liked. "So we took him back here. He's alive, but I don't envy him that broken leg. One of his men lived, the captain, though he's in a bad way too,"

"Why was there a fight in the first place?"

"Thought you would've known?" The man raised an eyebrow at him.

"Clearly not,"

"Ah. Well it was the Kingslayer what did it," The man grimaced, and Ren felt his face darken. "I know one of the whores in that brothel, she was hanging out the window 'n heard him saying something about his brother. Think Lady Stark took him prisoner. Obviously the Kingslayer didn't like that," Ren was silent for a moment.

"Thanks," He turned away abruptly, anger building inside him.

"Aren't we getting no coin for this?" One of the men grumbled.

"No," He snapped, walking away towards the entrance to the tower without another word.

"You won all that money in the tourney," One of them yelled after him, but he ignored them. Ren was angrier than he had been in a long time. He went not to his uncle's chambers, but to the guards quarters, where Jory had been laid out on his bed, one of the other men cleaning and bandaging his wounds. He truly wasn't in a good way, but was able to speak, and upon Ren's asking, told him exactly what had happened, which also explained exactly what Lord Stark had been doing outside a brothel. Visiting a young whore to see her child, an infant girl, with a head of dark hair. His uncle was getting closer and closer to the truth.

Jory finished with telling of the fight, of the Kingslayer's order to kill the men but leave Lord Stark alive. The other two Stark men-at-arms who had gone with his uncle turned out to have been Heward and Wyl. Both were dead, at the Kingslayer's command.

"And then he just left," Ren asked in a low voice as Jory finished.

"Fled," The man's voice was hoarse; he looked close to dying as he lay there on the bed, bandages already blood-soaked. Hopefully his wounds were better than they looked. Ren knew some men could survive horrific injuries with few consequences, whilst others died of apparently minor ones.

"Fled," He echoed the word. Blood was pounding in his ears, as he turned to leave.

"Don't you go doing anything stupid," Jory warned him, voice too weak to be taken seriously. Ren ignored him. He looked in on Lord Stark, who was still unconscious in bed, leg bent at a horrific angle as Grand Maester Pycelle tended it, and dosed up on enough milk of the poppy to knock out a horse. Sansa and Arya were at his bedside, tears running down both their cheeks although Arya tried to hide it when he came in.

"I knew the Kingslayer was no good," His cousin said accusingly, at him, jumping up with anger twisting her young face. "I _knew_ it. Look at what he did to father!" Ren had no answer to that, just placed a hand on her shoulder and watching his uncle for a few moments.

"He'll need to let that leg heal properly," He said eventually. "Make sure he doesn't get out of bed too soon and damage it permanently. You look after him, both of you," It wouldn't do much, but hopefully his daughters fussing would delay Lord Stark's progress in finding the truth at least slightly.

Ren left the tower, heading straight for his sleeping cell. He gathered everything he owned together in a pack, which wasn't much. A warm cloak, two extra sets of clothes, his knife, blankets, waterskin and his prize money. Ten thousand gold dragons. He had invested a good portion of it already, given that he was a knight now, on a decent set of armour, a pair of sturdy boots, a new longsword and shield, and a good horse of his own with saddle and bridle, all of which should last a long time and would doubtlessly serve him well. But he couldn't take all the money with him, that was asking to be robbed and left in a ditch somewhere. His new things were plain enough to pass by unnoticed. The sword was unadorned, a simple blade and dark scabbard. The armour was plain grey, as was the shield, given that he hadn't decided on a sigil yet, and the horse's tack was practical, hardy but not flashy. It was only when you looked closely that you realised they were high quality, expensive.

He would take as much money as he could hide on his person, Ren decided. He'd had hidden pockets sewn into the lining of his clothes and boots, as well as his pack, and this was where he hid as much of the money as was practical.

"You're leaving?" He heard someone at the door and had already looked up when Lizzie spoke.

"Aye,"

"Where to?"

"North,"

"Oh," There was a short pause.

"I'd ask you to come, but you can't ride,"

"No, I know," She smiled, slightly sadly. "Shame I wasn't born a lady, riding before I could walk,"

"I think that's just the ladies in my family," His mood was growing slightly calmer now. He wasn't sure if that was her or something else. "Besides, if you'd been a lady, I wouldn't have been allowed near you,"

"That's probably true," She moved closer, sitting on the bed. "I don't suppose you can tell me why you're going,"

"No," He said. "I can't," Another pause. "The Starks will be going north soon, anyway, likely as soon as Lord Eddard wakes up and can hobble about with a cane. If they go by a ship, convince Morganna to make sure you're on it and not travelling by road with the rest. I'll be seeing you again soon,"

"Couldn't you just wait til then, then? Why do you have to leave now?" It was a fair question

"No,"

"Why?" Because he didn't trust himself.

"Just no," His tone was final, and she clearly got the hint. "Here," He held out a small but heavy bag. She took it with an odd look at him, only for her eyes to widen as she looked inside.

"Don't be stupid, I can't take this," She stared at more gold dragons than she'd ever seen in her life. "These are your winnings,"

"Trust me, that's only a small portion. I've already spent a lot of it, and I'm taking as much of the rest as I can with me," He shrugged. "I'd rather you had it than the next person to find it under this bed. It's not charity," He gave her a sharp look, anticipating her protests. She shook her head weakly.

"Ren, it's too much,"

"Get yourself a nice dress. A pair of shoes, maybe," He smirked slightly, and she elbowed him, a small laugh coming from her lips. "Honestly though, just take it, and buy a knife. Knowing you, you'll get into trouble the moment I'm gone,"

"Fine," She still didn't look entirely comfortable with the idea, but then laughed. "Look at you, so much money you're giving it away,"

"Makes a change, doesn't it," She hugged him then, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"I always knew you'd move up in the world," He didn't reply, just held her tightly.

* * *

Ren made his way to the stables. He passed a burning brazier in one of the courtyards and drew the hastily scrawled letter to his mother out of his pocket, carefully placing it into the fire and staying to ensure it burned to a crisp. He'd be telling her the news himself, soon enough. Hopefully by then the entire Stark household would be on a ship to White Harbour, if not already at Winterfell waiting for him, and he wouldn't have to.

His new horse was a fine animal. He had liked the one he had ridden before, but that was taken from the stables of the Red Keep and technically belonged to the king. This one was his. Many knights preferred to ride stallions; Ren's mother had always said that where you tell a gelding what to do, you ask a stallion, and discuss it with a mare. For this reason, Ren had chosen a steel grey female palfrey, of reasonable size at just over sixteen hands, but fast, agile and with good stamina. It looked rather like his mother's latest horse, the one she'd ridden back to Winterfell, except nowhere near as highly strung or excitable. Not quite a warhorse, but good for what he needed her for. He saddled the horse himself, strapping his packs to the saddle, along with his sword.

"Where are you going?" He turned around to see his sister stood behind him, peering over the stable door with narrowed eyes. He hadn't heard her approach. If he had, he might've hid behind the horse. Morganna was the last person she wanted to see, as she would ask the most questions and would be the hardest to placate with half-answers and assurances. And where Lizzie wouldn't talk to anyone - the only Starks she had contact with were Sansa and Morganna, as their lady's maid - his sister would let everyone know where he was going and what she thought of it.

"Away," He went back to fastening buckles and straps.

"Good timing," Morganna said sarcastically. "Uncle Ned hasn't even woken up yet,"

"He won't be awake for days at least," Ren had seen his injured leg, and hoped for his uncle's sake that they kept him knocked out with milk of the poppy for most of the week. Morganna looked unimpressed at the deflection. "I'm going north," He relented. "Winterfell, or the Dreadfort, depending where mother is. There's a message I need to deliver,"

"Can't you write?" She looked skeptical. "It takes two months to ride there,"

"It took two months with an enormous wheelhouse and enough supply wagons to feed an army," Ren corrected. "A single rider heading up the Kingsroad on a fast horse? I could do at least forty miles a day and be there in under a month, easy,"

"And what's so important you can't just write it down?"

"None of your business," He took his horse's reins, leading it out into the yard as Morganna opened the stable door. "Besides, there's nothing left for me here. Although, I have a favour to ask you,"

"And what's that?" She crossed her arms.

"There's a book, on Lord Stark's desk in his solar," He said. "A thick book, old, about the lineages of the great houses, you can't miss it. I need you to return it to Maester Pycelle before our uncle wakes up," He should've done that himself, really, but it gave her something to do that would hopefully placate her a little.

"Alright," She seemed unperturbed by act itself, but clearly still found his motives confusing. "That's it, is it? You're running off without a word to anyone, the same day our uncle is attacked in the street - by _your_ Ser Jaime - to deliver some mystery message to mother that you won't tell me about?"

"Yes," Ren said flatly, tightening the girth again and checking the weight was distributed evenly so as not to injure the horse. "It's not a particularly urgent message, or I might have no choice but to risk sending a raven. I just can't stay here. Try to keep Lord Stark in bed as long as you can, remind him that he must rest his leg properly for it to heal. And try and get Sansa away from Joffrey,"

"No need to ask me twice," She muttered. "Well, try not to get yourself killed, I suppose. What have you done with your prize money?"

"Spent a lot of it," He gestured to the horse stood beside him. "Here's the rest," He threw a small bag similar to the one he'd given Lizzie at her. Morganna caught it with a grin, but didn't look twice at it, turning her attention to the animal for the first time.

"She's beautiful," The same small smile their mother wore when she saw a horse she liked was forming on her face. She didn't often resemble their mother much at all, but wearing that small smile was one of the few times they looked alike. "You don't often see a coat that dark a grey without any dapples," His sister ran a hand down the horse's neck. "She needs a name, I know you won't have given her one,"

"It's a horse, not a child," Ren shook his head.

"She still needs a name," His sister protested. "It'll stick in your head even if you try to ignore me, just like with Crow,"

"A direwolf called Crow," He scoffed. "You'd better not call this one Mountain Lion," She laughed.

"If it's accuracy you want then call her Grey Mare and have done with it," She tilted her head. "That's not bad, actually,"

"Grey Mare?"

"Grey _Lady_,"

"So long as Robb doesn't get confused with his direwolf, that'll do," Ren said dryly. "Or Sansa, for that matter. You're very original, sister,"

"Thank you," She grinned.

"Now, are you going to let me go, or are you waiting for me to ask you to come with me?"

"Would you let me come with you?"

"Not a chance,"

"Fine then," Morganna pulled a face at his blunt response, giving an overly-exaggerated curtsey that would've made Sansa's Septa proud. "Goodbye then, brother," She looked up with a grin. "I'll tell Sansa and Arya you wished them a loving goodbye too. And Lizzie, for that matter," He didn't tell her he had already said goodbye to Lizzie, she'd only go and try and wheedle more information out of her. Lizzie would likely have the sense to play along. "Give my love to everyone back home,"

"I hope you don't mind if I leave your father out," She laughed at that, straightening up. "I'll see you when you go back north. Lord Stark isn't Hand any more, so it shouldn't be long. If you go by sea, you might even get there before me," His sister hugged him then, very tightly, resting her head against his chest. She was definitely taller than she been only a few months before. He hugged her back for a few seconds, before stepping back, swinging himself up into the saddle and tightening the girth again.

"Goodbye," She gave him one last smile. He nudged the mare's sides, raising a hand in farewell as they set off out of the yard.

He'd been born this city, Ren remembered as he rode out of the Red Keep. He had never really thought about that much, that the first time he passed through these gates was coming the way he was now, leaving. Although then he wasn't even two years old, sat on his mother's lap as she rode beside her brother, Lord of Winterfell, and her sister's bones. Of course, he didn't remember any of that. The next time he had returned to the city had been aged ten. He'd had no idea then that he wasn't going to be riding back to the Dreadfort a month later with his mother after their business in the city, but rather squiring for one of the most talented and infamous knights in the realm.

This time, he was a knight himself.

Ser Renan Snow rode out of the gates of King's Landing, alone on his steel grey horse, heading north.


	20. Carrion Crows

Since her brother had left, Morganna had felt that something was off. It wasn't a particularly noticeable feeling, but she was on edge and had little to no idea why.

She had written to her mother, as Ren had asked her to, telling the woman that he was coming north. She also spoke of her uncle's injury, and the circumstances in which it happened. Lord Stark had taken six days and seven nights to wake up, once the Maester lowered his dosage of milk of the poppy. Morganna had thought then that they would soon all be leaving for Winterfell, as Ren had said they would, but upon visiting her uncle the first time he was conscious, he had informed her, Sansa and Arya that he was Hand of the King once more. Robert apparently didn't hold a grudge towards his old friend for very long, nor, by the looks of things, did he wait around for the man to get better, going hunting the very morning after reinstating his Hand.

Two days later, her uncle had summoned the three of them to his solar, explaining that they were soon going to be travelling back north by sea. This confused Morganna; why would they be leaving if he was still Hand? She was also rather annoyed, as although she missed her family in Winterfell and the Dreadfort, she liked being in King's Landing, and would miss Myrcella when she was gone. Arya seemed pleased by the decision once her father assured her that she could bring her dancing master with her. Sansa on the other hand, was furious. Somewhere in between her protests and whining about wanting to marry Joffrey, her father seemed to come to some sort of realisation and cut her off, sending them all away without explanation.

Just over two weeks passed. To everyone's surprise, the king's party returned early, unusual for Robert, who, according to Myrcella, liked to spend as much time away from the city as possible. It was not the triumphant return that was expected, despite the enormous dead boar that was carried between two horses.

Morganna didn't find out until later that day that the king was dying. He had received a mortal wound fighting the boar, her uncle explained to them, and would be dead by morning. Lord Stark also said that they would be leaving at noon the next day, by ship, so to finish any packing they might have and be ready to go on time.

Morganna awoke that day to the sounds of Lannister men drilling in the yard. Arya begged her father to let her have a final dancing lesson before they left, and Lord Stark gave her permission. When Sansa asked to go and see Joffrey one last time, her father refused, even when Septa Mordane offered to escort her. Sansa ran weeping to her chambers, of course, and Morganna decided against asking to see Myrcella; she'd seen her the day before, and the girl was likely grieving her father with her family. Morganna wasn't particularly good at comforting people, nor did she enjoy it.

She wasn't even sure if she'd grieve her own father's death or not. Lord Bolton had never been a father like her uncle was to his children, sitting with them around the fire at night and telling stories. Her mother was never particularly warm either, hardly the type to sing her or her siblings to sleep, or fuss over them when they fell over and grazed a knee, although she did give good hugs. And some of Morganna's happiest childhood memories were learning to ride with her mother, galloping across the moors surrounding the Dreadfort beside her. Her mother seemed far more relaxed the further away they got from the castle, smiling more freely and letting a slightly less measured and restrained side of her show.

She wondered what her mother would do now. Something strange was definitely going on, or they wouldn't be going back north at all. Her mother would know more about what was going on if she was here, and she could actually do something about it, too. At that thought, Morganna stopped concerning herself with the matter altogether. Even if she knew what was happening (no one would tell her), even if she knew what she needed to do (she did not), no one would listen to her, because she was twelve years old.

With Sansa and Arya both gone, Morganna was the only family member present when Grand Maester Pycelle arrived to inform her uncle that the king was dead. Lord Stark insisted on calling a small council meeting in the Tower of the Hand, sending Morganna away. She went up to her chambers, looking in on Sansa, only to see that her cousin wasn't there. She must've snuck away whilst everyone was distracted. Morganna was amused at the thought of her well-behaved cousin misbehaving in such a way. Sansa was inexperienced in such things as sneaking, and would likely be caught and sent back soon. Morganna wanted to be there to laugh at her surely-tearful apologies.

So she waited there in the tower, playing the good girl for once. Lizzie Lewis was there finishing up Sansa's packing and tidying up Arya's, and she was always good company. They had a laugh together at Sansa's ridiculous devotion to Joffrey, and Lizzie too had noticed the bruises on Arya's arms and legs, supposedly from dancing lessons, but no one could be _that_ bad at dancing. Personally, Morganna suspected her younger cousin was skipping her dancing lessons to go and wrestle in the mud with the servant's children or urchins from the city, although that didn't explain why she wanted her dancing master to come to Winterfell with them.

Morganna heard her uncle and some of the men downstairs leaving the tower. Sansa still hadn't returned, which was odd, and Arya wasn't due back for half an hour. She vaguely considered using the terrifying secret passage she'd found behind the fireplace in her chambers to sneak out just for the hell of it - which was what she'd done to go and see Ren when she was meant to be in bed - but she was lucky last time to have brought a candle and not gotten lost down there, or fallen and broken her neck. She glanced out the window. The Lannister guards were no longer out in the yard training. They were normally there until midday.

Then the shouting started, very quickly followed by the sound of steel on steel.

"What the - " Morganna ran to the window - Arya's room was above the entrance - looking down and seeing the tower surrounded by red-cloaked Lannister guardsmen. Not only that, they were fighting the Stark men that guarded the entrance.

"They can't do that," Lizzie's eyes were wide and shocked as she joined her. "Lord Stark's the Hand,"

"Something's wrong," Morganna said, feeling a stab of fear. Ren had made it seem like something bad was going to happen. "Gods, they're _killing_ them," She stared in disbelief as their own guardsmen fell. The heavy wooden door was beaten in, and redcloaks poured into the tower.

"They're coming up here," Lizzie turned to her, looking more scared than Morganna had ever seen her, contrasting the always-laughing girl she knew. "That door was the only way out," Morganna would likely be fine, they wouldn't harm a highborn girl for hostage value alone, but she didn't like the idea of being a prisoner, and gods know what would happen to Lizzie.

"There's a passageway, in my fireplace," Morganna hurried across the landing and into her chambers, Lizzie close behind. "I found it sneaking out to see Ren, it goes up into the tower and goes down too, coming out near the postern gate," They both tried to ignore the shouts of pain and clash of swords coming up the staircase from not too far below them. What in hells was going on? Surely this meant open war; one noble house couldn't simply attack another in the middle of the Red Keep without repercussions, let alone the household guard of the Hand of the King.

"I can't fit down there," Lizzie was pale, looking at the small hole in the fireplace Morganna had uncovered. "_You_ could barely fit down there, and you're much skinner than me,"

"It's that or let them catch us," Morganna replied. "They're getting closer, listen," That seemed to make up the older girl's mind.

"You get in first, then," She said, nudging Morganna on. "I'll follow, in case I get stuck," Morganna, stopping only to collect the knife Ren had given her for her birthday, manoeuvred herself into the narrow gap. Lizzie was right, if she was much larger then she wouldn't fit. The older girls' hips and shoulders were bigger than hers, gods she hoped she'd get through.

It was almost complete darkness in the passage. Last time had been sufficiently terrifying that even Morganna, normally the most reckless and adventurous of all her siblings and cousins, had sworn never to go down there again, and that had been with a candle. This was pitch blackness, climbing down a rickety ladder into the gloom, feeling carefully with her foot to see if the rungs were broken below her. She tried not to think about all the spiders and bugs that were surely all around her as she made the rather perilous climb down the ladder.

For a terrifying second, she thought Lizzie wasn't coming down after her, but then the little remaining light was blocked out from the top, and the older girl just managed to squeeze inside, pulling the slab shut behind her. The one good thing about the tight space was that no man could ever hope to follow them that way, although Morganna suspected this passage linked up to several other fireplaces in the tower, including the Hand's chambers.

The pair didn't dare talk as they climbed down into the darkness, rung by rung. The walls were thick, but not that thick, and Morganna could still hear shouting and the moans of dying men from the other side. She thought of Jory, still wrapped up in bandages in bed. She bet they killed him as well. _Bastards_. At one point Lizzie slipped on the ladder, letting out a yelp of panic, and they both froze for a second, waiting for someone to realise where they were. After several tense seconds, nothing happened, so they carried on, her stomach feeling like jelly.

"Here," Morganna had been feeling the wall with her toe as she descending each rung - it wasn't like she could see it - and made contact with the ledge she had used last time. She stepped off the ladder, feeling her way into the passage. "Gods, it's pitch black. I can't see a thing,"

"I've got a tinderbox," Lizzie said a little shakily as she too stepped onto the ledge, clutching at Morganna like a lifeline. "Hold on," There was a rustling sound, the sound of flint, then a faint light from the tiny candle she carried, illuminating both of their sweating, grubby faces.

"I wonder where that ends up," Morganna peered over the edge of the ledge into the seemingly bottomless blackness below. "It might go under the walls,"

"If you don't know, we won't risk it," Lizzie said. "What if the ladder runs out, or breaks? The bit we just came down creaked far too much for my liking," Morganna was glad she was the one to say no to that idea.

"That's why I only came down here once after I found it," She said, setting off down the passageway. "It was lucky I didn't carry on down, really, only I had similar thoughts and stopped when I found this,"

They walked largely in silence until they reached the trapdoor. It was near the postern gate, like Morganna said, situated in the narrow gap between the stables and the walls, and under a large pile of old straw from the nearby stables, so no one could see them scramble out. Brushing dirty straw smelling strongly of horse manure off of her dress, Morganna moved forward to investigate, but Lizzie stopped her.

"Put this on," In the light of day, Morganna suddenly noticed the girl was wearing a cloak she definitely hadn't been wearing before, as Lizzie took it off and handed it to her. "You're too recognisable in that dress. And get that jewellery off too," That was a good point. Morganna gratefully took the roughspun cloak, her own plainest one, and removed her necklace and earrings. She realised she didn't have any pockets, so gave them to Lizzie who had several, before peering out from behind the building. She could see all the way across the outer yard, over to the small hall, the Tower of the Hand rising up behind it. Redcloaked Lannister guards, together with the city watch, were fighting the Stark men openly in the courtyard, to the death. She saw two familiar guards cut down even as she looked on; the Lannisters had strength in numbers on their side, and the Starks were clearly losing. Morganna watched as Septa Mordane was dragged across the courtyard, sobbing for the Mother's mercy, by a pair of jeering goldcloaks, and for once felt a stab of pity for the woman. Only a stab, however; she was more focused on getting herself out of here.

"Gods be good," Lizzie murmured beside her. "Even the Septa," Morganna silently agreed. The full impact of these events was suddenly hitting her now as the initial shock started to wear off. Sansa had left the tower ages ago - Morganna hoped she had the sense to hide, but somehow doubted it - and Arya would hopefully be alright, if she could find her uncle and the rest of the men. But what about her uncle? Where was he? He would hardly stand for slaughter like this... which meant that they had him too.

"What about Sansa and Arya?" She turned to Lizzie, suddenly panicked for the first time.

"There's no time," Lizzie shook her head regretfully. "They're highborn. They'll be fine,"

"Then why are you so scared for me?"

"I -" The girl hesitated. "There really isn't any time. We need to go, someone's going to notice you're not there at some point and come looking. You're not as important as a Stark, but they're not just going to let you go," Morganna was in agreement, but frowned.

"Won't there be guards on the gate? They obviously don't want anyone getting out,"

"Look around, it's chaos," Lizzie's optimistic tone was forced, and she bit her lip, clearly wondering the same thing. "They won't have put the word out yet that you and the other girls aren't there,"

"If we stay here, we get caught anyway," Morganna reasoned.

"Exactly," Lizzie sighed. "Right. Postern gate. And keep your head down, you're too recognisable," Morganna nodded.

Luckily, though the gate was not unguarded, it _was_ under_-_guarded, the majority busy fighting Starks. The two left on the postern gate were clearly the dregs of the barrel, as all it took was a stone thrown in the other direction by Lizzie to make a noise that that both off them drawing their swords and going off to investigate. Hoping desperately that none of the guards on the battlements saw them, both girls walked briskly towards the gate - running would attract too much attention - keeping to the edges as much as possible, praying that it wasn't locked. It was, but the keys were on a ring abandoned on the guard's table. Morganna quickly snatched them up, struggling to turn the heavy lock, until Lizzie took over, and they both slipped out, shutting the door behind them and keeping flat to the walls so the men on the battlements wouldn't notice anyone leaving.

"We shouldn't've have got away with that. That was very, _very_ lucky," Lizzie breathed in disbelief, daring a quick smile. Her face then sobered. "Now we've just got to get out of the city,"

The older girl seemed to have a decent knowledge of the streets, which was fortunate, as Morganna had no idea. The one time she'd gone out with Ren it had been dark, and they hadn't gone very far from the castle or the main streets.

"How do you know this place so well?" She asked as they entered yet another dingy side-street.

"Your brother took me out a lot," Lizzie gave her a brief grin that didn't quite reach her eyes, which were stressed and harried. "I've got a good memory for things like this. Good thing, too, or we'd be proper lost," They were heading towards the Mud Gate, as Lizzie insisted it was quickest, if you went down the Hook road. It also meant avoiding Flea Bottom, where everyone's eyes were peeled for any sign of riches, and even the briefest flash of Morganna's blue silk and gold lace dress from under that cloak would have thieves descending onto them like carrion crows to a battlefield.

They neared the gate, the smell of saltwater and fish in the air the closer they got to the sea and emerged into fishmonger's square. The square was busy, as it usually was at this time of day, meaning the gate itself was blocked from view. As they elbowed their way through the crowd, Morganna realised the ship Lord Stark had paid for would be there, and mentioned this to Lizzie.

"No," The older girl said. "We don't know if he's been paid yet. If not, he wouldn't take you, not with all the trouble making it unlikely he'd get his money. The Lannisters don't know about the ship, true, but if the captain's heard they're looking for Starks, he might just turn you in himself for a reward - " Lizzie broke of, cursing under her breath as they made it through the crowd and saw the Mud Gate was swarming with goldcloaks. No one was allowed through. The people in the crowd weren't happy about it, but there was little they could do against the goldcloaks but grumble and shout the occasional insult.

"There are other gates," Morganna said, though her panic was growing.

"They'll be worse, they'll be expecting us to go north," Lizzie bit her lip. "Alright. I've got a plan, but you stay here," There was something in her tone that made Morganna uneasy, but she nodded, and watched as the older girl approached one of the guards.

From the provocative way she was standing it was obvious what she was doing. _Gods, that's your plan? _She really must be desperate. Morganna stood there next to the walls, waiting for Lizzie to be shoved back or rudely refused, but it seemed to be working, although she didn't like the way a couple of the other guards were muttering together and looking at Morganna herself. Lizzie seemed to be a good actress, laughing even as the guard grabbed at her crudely, beckoning Morganna over.

"Me and my sister need to get past to help our father," She batted her eyelashes up at the man, not talking in her normal voice; she was putting on a southern accent. "He's out of the river and needs us to help bring in his catch, we do it every day. He'll beat us if we're not there soon. I'll make it worth your while, if you just let us through. What's the harm?" The guard gave an appreciative laugh that Morganna didn't like.

"This offer for the both of you, then?" Lizzie's smile didn't even falter.

"I'm afraid not," She said, even adding in a giggle. "Anna's only a little girl, flat as a plank. Why would you want that when you can have near a woman?"

"Fair enough," The guard grunted, glancing at Morganna - who didn't have to pretend to be annoyed by that - amused. "Come on then, sweetheart. Your sister can go on through while you and I find somewhere more quiet," Lizzie barely looked at Morganna, hanging off the man's arm as he lead her into the guard house, hands already all over her. Morganna had never seen anything quite so sickening. She stared after them, in shock that Lizzie would actually do something like that, even to get them both out, but was jolted back to reality when someone grabbed her shoulder.

"Get off me!" She exclaimed, in her clearly northern voice, struggling to keep her cloak covering her dress.

"It's her alright," The man who had grabbed her, one of the remaining guards, chuckled to the other. "Saw her next to Lord Stark at the Hand's tourney. You his daughter?" He turned back to Morganna, who felt like she was going to be sick.

"The Hand?" She was a good liar, she always had been a good liar, so good that only her parents or sister could tell when she wasn't telling the truth. But that had been when the only consequences were a scolding from her mother, or at worst her father's punishments. Her voice shook in a way it never had before. "I'm no lady, she told you, we're just here to help our father," The man holding her laughed again.

"And where is it you live again?" He asked her, clearly disbelieving. "King's Landing, is it?"

"River Row," Morganna lied.

"Really?" The guard raised an eyebrow, grabbing her hand roughly and turning it over. "You've got the softest hands I've ever seen on a Blackwater fisherman's daughter. And the strongest northern accent, come to that," She was at a loss, as the men laughed at her. She remembered the knife Ren had given her, that she'd snatched from her chambers during the escape and hidden in her skirts, and gripped the hilt tightly under her cloak.

"What about your whore of a friend?" The other asked with a leer. "Please tell me it's one of Lord Stark's daughters our Evan's fucking,"

"Come off it," The first guard snorted. "As if a lady knows how to talk like that. She'll be some servant," He turned to Morganna, who remained silent. Should she use her knife? If she was quick enough, she might surprise them, and be able to rush past and through the gate.

"Game's up, girl," The second stepped closer. "Tell us who you are, or we might just decide to give your pretty serving girl friend over to the barracks," Morganna wanted to spit in his eyes, but decided that would make things worse for both of them. She had no experience with the dagger. If she was quick, she might be able to stab the hand of whoever was holding her, and make it through the gates, yes, but they knew the area along the river much better than she did, and would surely catch her within minutes. These were sensible thoughts, but as the men stared down at her, amused at her predicament, her reckless nature overtook any rational thinking. _Better go down fighting than be meek and biddable_.

She had no experience using a blade, true, but she did have the element of surprise. She brought the dagger out from under her cloak, clumsily stabbing at the wrist of the man holding her. The knife sank deep into flesh, and the man gave a yell, letting go. And Morganna ran. She realised in a split second that the Mud Gate was locked too, so shoved and pushed her way through the crowd in fisherman's square, ignoring the angry shouts and indignant protests behind her.

A skinny young girl could slip through the crowd easier than a larger person could, but people moved out the way of the armed goldcloaks, clearing a path. She tried to outrun them, but she could hear their voices getting closer and closer. A few had moved around to the way out of fisherman's square, cutting off her escape route. The ones pursuing behind her were so close now, and, realising it was hopeless (if she was honest, she'd realised that before), she whirled around with the knife, slashing and stabbing at any of them she could reach. She got a few lucky hits in; she got one of them in the eye, and another one in the wrist, but a heavy blow to the back of her head sent her sprawling to the dirty ground with a cry, her head an explosion of pain.

"That's not Stark's daughter," She heard a voice say above her. It sounded distant, muffled, and all she could do was lie there with her face in the foul-smelling mud, dazed. "She's too tall. That's his niece, the Bolton girl," Someone stepped closer, and her knife was taken from her loose grip.

"Nice steel," He whistled. "I'll have that," Morganna gritted her teeth, wishing she could bring herself to move, but even that small movement sent waves of pain through her head. _Mother would never be so weak, she survived the Mad King_.

"Bolton?" Another voice said anxiously. "We should've been more careful. Lord Bolton's nasty, worse than the Old Lion, lots of the northmen I've been drinking with say. He'll flay your whole skin off and wear it as a cloak if you harm his daughter,"

"Well Lord Bolton ain't here," The second guard snapped at him. "Besides, her mother's the Whore of Winterfell. You know that bastard Ren Snow, don't you? This one probably ain't even trueborn either," He gave a dark chuckle that made Morganna's blood boil. She wished she still had her knife, so she could stab it through his boot.

"Who said anything about harming her?" The first man said. "All I want is a nice tidy reward for handing her in to Queen Cersei. She did tell us to watch out for Starks at the Mud Gate," How did the queen know that? Only the Starks knew that. "I'm thinking she'll come quietly, now," He chuckled. Morganna felt two pairs of hands lift her off the ground. She worried for a moment that her cloak was not hiding her dress anymore, then realised that it was covered in mud and filth now anyway. Then she realised that it didn't matter anyway, they knew who she was.

"Let my friend... go," She murmured as they hauled her to her feet, hating how weak her voice sounded. Both men hooted.

"Pretty thing like that? No chance,"

"She's my brother's..." She paused. What exactly was Lizzie to Ren? She wasn't sure, so she made something up. "... betrothed. He'll tear you apart... if you touch her," Every word hurt. That last part wasn't as much of a lie.

"Evan's done more than just touched her by now," One of them snorted. "And besides, Snow isn't here either, and won't be for a long time if he knows what's good for him," Morganna had no reply to that. _All that, for nothing_. Since the fighting began, she had hoped vainly that they might be able to escape from this. Now though, as she was dragged through the streets, her head pounding with pain through the indignity, further and further away from Lizzie, she saw that hope had been absurd. She felt more useless and defeated than she'd felt in her life.

They marched her up to the castle, and after a short conversation with the guards on the main gate of the Red Keep, they were let in. They led her past the Tower of the Hand, past the bodies of men she had known for years, hoping to the gods that her uncle wasn't amongst them, until they reached a part of the castle she had only ever been let into when accompanied by Myrcella. Maegor's holdfast was formidable, and she bit her lip as she saw a body impaled on the stakes in the moat.

They brought her into a bare-looking chamber. The guards shouted for someone, making her wince, and several serving women hurried over. There was some conversation between the two, but Morganna couldn't focus long enough to listen. A bathtub was hauled in, but one of the guards didn't leave, even when one of the older women looked at him reproachfully.

"She's a wolf in lady's clothing, that one," He just shrugged. "Stabbed four men trying to escape. I wouldn't put it past her to try to drown one of you in that tub," He did turn away, however, sitting in a chair that faced out the small window.

Morganna didn't have the energy or strength to protest as the women unlaced her dress, tutting with each other at all the mud and dirt, saying what a waste it was. They washed her off with rags and a basin of cool water at first, getting the majority of the mud off. She watched as the water turned a nasty shade of greyish brown. Then they helped her into the tub. That water was cool as well, and she cringed away slightly, but was rather glad of it. The cold was helping her regain her senses, feel less sick, and when they washed her hair it soothed the growing lump on the back of her head.

Having been washed and redressed - into one of her own dresses, green and black, which had presumably been brought from the Tower of the Hand - the Grand Maester's assistant had a look at the back of her head, declaring her fine so long as she rested for a day or two. She was then shown up the stairs by a pair of guards, still feeling a little dizzy, but had regained enough of her senses to ask questions. No one spoke to her at all, however, merely opening a door near the top of the holdfast and pushed her inside.

"Morganna!" For perhaps the first time ever, her spirits rose a fraction as she saw Sansa, alive and... well, not safe. Alive and unharmed, for now. Jeyne Poole was also there, and tears were running down both girls' cheeks. "What's happening? No one will tell me anything. I've asked to see Father, and Joffrey, but no one answers," Joffrey, why in hells would she want to see _Joffrey_ at a time like this?

"They're killing all the Stark men," Morganna sat down heavily on the bed, suddenly exhausted, her head spinning. "I don't know why. Last time I saw your father was when he left the tower with some men. The fighting started not long after that,"

"Why did it take you so long to get here?" Jeyne asked, tears still streaming down her face. "I was in the tower and they shut me in here hours ago. They came up the stairs and dragged me away, they were killing everyone, my father - " She burst out sobbing again, and Morganna looked away. She had forgotten about Jeyne, who shared a room with her father Vayon Poole several floors below.

"You're not making sense, Jeyne. Why would they kill a steward?" Sansa asked in what she seemed to think was a comforting way. "He doesn't carry a sword. I'm sure he's alive and well, isn't he?" She gave Morganna a pointed look. She was tempted to bluntly say no and agree with Jeyne that her father was likely dead, but was too weary of the day to deal with the fallout.

"They walked me right past the Tower of the Hand and I didn't see his body," She said instead, a little uncomfortably. She wasn't good at making people feel better like this, and it didn't placate Jeyne, but at least she stopped crying so noisily; it was hurting her head. Sansa turned to Morganna again.

"You didn't say where you were,"

"I escaped," She said listlessly. "There's a secret passage in my fireplace. Me and Lizzie went through it and came out near the postern gate. We got out into the city and tried to go through the River Gate. Lizzie tried to trick them into letting us through," She wouldn't tell Sansa exactly how, she didn't think she could sit through any piously disapproving looks. "But they knew we were coming. I don't know how," She frowned. "The guard said the queen warned him about our ship, but I don't know where she would've heard about that,"

"One of our men must've let it slip by mistake," Sansa said, although she didn't meet her eyes, and there was something decidedly off about her tone. There was a pause.

"Where's Arya?" Morganna asked, suddenly realising her cousin was absent. "Is she in another room?" She was expecting to hear something like the girl was too wild or badly behaved to be put in here, but Sansa just bit her lip.

"I don't know," She said, actually looking concerned. "I tried asking about her, but they wouldn't tell me anything,"

They were left in the room for the rest of the day. After an hour or so of waiting for her head to stop pounding - it didn't - Morganna spent the time searching every inch of the room for some way of escape, despite Sansa telling her to stop it, that they were safe here. They were anything but safe, and the walls seemed to be closing in on her the longer she was in here, so she looked in the fireplace for another secret passage, patted down the walls, moved aside tapestries and the small book case, even the big heavy wardrobe. The noise of her struggling to move it aside sent the guards in, who were bemused at her antics, laughing as they moved the wardrobe back.

"Try the window, girl," One said mockingly. Morganna already had. Although the windows opened, they were at the top of Maegor's Holdfast, which was a vertical drop down to the moat of iron spikes, a body already impaled below them. She would've even attempted the climb then, except there were no ledges or handholds of any sort. Trying to escape that way would be suicide, even if you were Bran.

Eventually, she had to conclude that the only way out of this room was the door, which was constantly under guard. Even if she got out of the room, there was no way she would get down to the next floor, let alone out of the Holdfast. When Sansa and Jeyne eventually fell asleep - Jeyne still quietly weeping, Sansa having pulled herself together - Morganna was determined to stay awake, sitting next to the window and staring out into the darkness, until she could no longer keep her eyes open and woke the next morning as the sun rose, with cold arms, a sore head and a stiff neck from sleeping awkwardly on a chair.

That day was maddeningly dull. All the fighting was over, and no one spoke to any of them, despite their questioning of the servants that brought them food - Sansa asked politely, whereas Morganna grabbed one poor maid, refusing to let her go unless she got answers, but the guards outside the door came in at the noise and tore her off the girl - and no one of importance came to see them. The only blessing was that Sansa had finally stopped asking if she could talk to Joffrey or the queen. By the end of the day, all three of them had grown even more desperate for news, and Morganna was growing more and more restless with every passing minute, ignoring Sansa when she asked her to stop pacing around the room, even though her head hurt. It was more than frustrating being stuck in here, not knowing anything, where her uncle was, what had happened to Lizzie, or Arya.

At sunset, the low, mournful sound of bells began to toll.

"They're for King Robert," Sansa said needlessly.

"Bit late," Morganna snorted without any humour, sat on the chair by the window again, not that she'd seen anything more that day than men clearing away the bodies of the Stark household guard, who by the looks of things had been slaughtered to a man. The king had died yesterday morning. That was what had started all of this trouble.

The day after that, the Kingsguard came for Sansa. The ugly, fat one, Boros Blount, escorted her from the room. Morganna tried to ask him questions, get him to take her with him too, but the knight ignored her, and when she tried to rush out the door, she wasn't surprised when she was shoved roughly back inside, making her head spin even though it had been slowly improving. Sansa was gone a long time. Morganna spent the time pacing, ignoring Jeyne's pleas for her to stop it, every now and then staring out the window with keen eyes, searching for any trace of her cousin, her uncle, Arya, Lizzie, even Ren, miraculously returned to get them all out.

Then they came for Jeyne.

"Where are you taking her?" Morganna rounded on the guards that came into their room, asking Jeyne to gather her things together.

"To see her father," One of the grunted unconvincingly. "He's in Lord Baelish's chambers. Hurry up, girl,"

"He's lying," Morganna narrowed her eyes. "Jeyne, your father's surely dead, he's trying to trick you," The girl looked terrified, tears welling in her eyes again, but carried on packing.

"You don't know that," She said, but looked a little warily at the guard. There was no time to try to convince her, not that either of them could do anything even if she could.

"Come on," The guard guided the girl out of the room, another taking the small bag of belongings she had with her. The door shut, and Morganna was alone.

Sansa returned some time later, looking far too relaxed.

"They've taken Jeyne," Morganna turned to her. "What happened?"

"I went to see the queen," Her cousin smiled tremulously. "Morganna, it's all going to be fine. Her Grace got me to write letters, to Mother, Robb, Aunt Lysa and Lord Tully. So long as they come to King's Landing to pledge fealty to Joffrey, all will be forgiven," Morganna stared at her.

"Forgiven?" She frowned. "Forgiven for what?"

"Oh," Sansa's face fell. "They think Father is a traitor. They said he tried to usurp Joffrey to put Lord Stannis on the throne. But I told them that I wasn't a traitor, that all I want to do is marry Joffrey, and they talked about if I was loyal or not. Writing to Mother and everyone else would ease their fears,"

"Are you simple?" Morganna burst out.

"What?" Sansa looked hurt.

"Lord Stark has been arrested for treason and his family has been commanded to come south," She said, starting to pace again. "That's a little too familiar, isn't it? That's exactly what happened with our grandfather and Uncle Brandon and the Mad King, and in this situation we're my mother!"

"Joffrey isn't mad," Sansa protested indignantly. "You shouldn't talk like that, someone will hear," She was probably right about that, but Morganna was too angry, too scared to care.

"Joffrey is a spoilt, cruel _boy_!" She carried on. "You saw him by the river, when he was bullying that butcher's boy, and lied about it later. You saw him _hit_ me. My brother has known that boy for years, and has nothing good to say about him. Hells, I'm friends with his own sister, who has even less good to say. You're an idiot if you think he's going to show any mercy to your father, or to Robb when he comes south," By the end of the sentence, Morganna felt tears welling in her eyes, but furiously blinked them away.

"Stop it!" Sansa was crying openly now. "Just stop it. You're so angry and hateful! Joffrey will listen to me, he wouldn't hurt Father. Perhaps he'll only be exiled for a few years and then everything will be alright, but if Mother or Robb does something treasonous then all that will be ruined. That's why I wrote the letters. All I want to do is marry Joffrey," There was a silence after her words. For once, Morganna couldn't be bothered to argue. She merely shook her head, turning away and returning to her seat by the window, silent tears falling down her cheeks. She hadn't cried in years, and wasn't going to let Sansa of all people see her now.

The dress she was wearing made her look a little like her mother, tall, dark and thin. It was something similar to what she would wear, with its dark colours, high neck and narrow sleeves. Morganna didn't feel like her mother. She felt weak, pathetic, helpless, everything she knew her mother was not. She remembered the woman's angry words or warning before she left, and how she scorned them. _You little fool_. She hadn't appreciated then how quickly the world could be turned upside down. She'd have been better off staying in the North. Everyone would have been better off staying in the North.

* * *

Please review/comment on this story, constructive criticism is very helpful, and comments always inspire me to write more. Thank you so much everyone who has done so already, it's very much appreciated.


	21. Pride

It seemed like every word from the south was bad news.

First had been the four men escorting the direwolves back to Winterfell (all clearly relieved to now have to deal with the three huge beasts any longer). They told a troublesome tale of how Arya and Morganna had gotten into a fight with Prince Joffrey on the banks of the Trident. The younger boy, Tommen, had also been involved somehow, although the details weren't exactly clear.

What _had _been clear was the bruise on Ross' daughter's face where the crown prince had hit her with the hilt of his sword. Upon hearing that, Ross had half a mind to take her horse and catch up with the royal party herself, giving Joffrey the smacks that his mother should've done years ago and hauling her daughter back north regardless of what anyone else thought. She had, perhaps wisely, decided against that course of action, largely because that made her no better than Catelyn.

Ross' anger at her goodsister abandoning her duties and heading off on some ill-informed journey to King's Landing had dulled slightly in the weeks the woman was gone. In truth, she rather enjoyed being the only Lady of Winterfell again. The men at the Dreadfort respected her of course (to her face at least), but it was very different being a Stark in Winterfell, her childhood home, to her husband's grim castle. And Ross would take any chance to get away from her husband. It wasn't that Bolton was ever cruel or violent towards her, but he scared her sometimes like few people ever had, though she'd never admit it. There was very little behind those pale eyes of his. Everything that happened, good or bad, seemed to be merely a mild amusement to him, a simple game to distract him from gods know what. Yes, Ross was glad to be home for longer than a few weeks.

All in all, affairs at Winterfell had settled into a new normal. Robb was a good lord - his father had taught him well - though was, of course, still a boy. That made no matter. Ross and Maester Luwin were more than able to assist him, particularly with the accounts and finances, which no young boy had any time for. That was Ross' domain, as it had been before she was married.

Bran seemed rather lost, all things considered, but that was only to be expected. He had lost several fingers from his right hand at the hands of a catspaw sent to murder him in his bed, and then he had lost his mother as the woman went tearing off south. Young Rickon wasn't coping any better and still behaved terribly, only aided by that monstrous black wolf of his. Ross was one of the few people aside from Robb and Aileen who could get him to toe the line, but it was clear she was not the mother the four year old wanted. Catelyn might have been strict, austere and a perfect lady as a mother, but she was practically soft compared to Ross.

None of her own children had ever seemed to _need_ a softer touch, though. Ren had grown up far too fast, and had always been clever and fiercely independent. Edrick was wild and loved to act out, hardly wanting his mother to fuss over him, whilst Aileen had always preferred her own company and was perfectly happy to spend hours by herself, usually in the library. Of all of them, Morganna had been the most needy as a young child, but even that was hidden behind bravado, nerve and brazen cheek.

Ross was quite certain in the knowledge that her four wouldn't have done well if Catelyn was their mother, but equally she was sure that she could not adequately act as a mother to the other woman's children either. Robb was honourable and dutiful, too much like Ned despite his open, friendly demeanour, and Ross felt like any hint of her darker side would drive him away. Bran was a gentle, inquisitive boy who needed warmth and support from his mother rather than blunt realism and stern stares from his aunt. And Rickon was just a baby really, acting out of sadness and anger and wanting his mother, not the cold, hard-eyed woman who had replaced her.

Her goodsister needed to return north, and soon. Hopefully whatever she tried to stir up in King's Landing would be recognised as the reckless idiocy it was. Hopefully Ned would listen to his sister's letter rather than his wife's words. Hopefully everything would be fine.

She should've learned by now that things rarely went that way. When the news came that Catelyn had taken Tyrion Lannister prisoner on her way back through the Riverlands, Ross had been too furious to even speak.

Maester Luwin had handed Robb the letter first, and he didn't read it aloud as was his custom, rather scanned the page in tense silence, face growing grimmer with each passing second. Ross already knew it was bad news by the time he passed it over to her without a word.

She scanned down the letter herself, feeling her lips grow thinner with each passing sentence, her face turning to stone. By the end, she was gripping the parchment so tight that her knuckles were white. Knuckles that she would dearly like to slam into Catelyn Tully's pretty mouth. She was angrier than when the woman had first left, angrier than when Morganna had conned her way into going south, angrier than when Roose Bolton had said she couldn't take her son with her to the Dreadfort.

In that moment, she truly could've torn her own hair out. The pain would've paled in comparison to her rage. _Of all the stupid things to have done, goodsister, you just had to start a war with Tywin Lannister_.

"What was she _thinking_?" Robb had gone pale as she placed the letter on the desk.

The boy had the right of it. What _was_ she thinking? It was madness, idiocy, dangerous and futile, because even if Tyrion had sent the catspaw after Bran, what did it matter now? They now had far bigger problems. It had to have been an impulse decision, because anyone who wasn't a simpleton couldn't have thought that that was a good idea after thinking about it for more than five minutes.

And why would _Tyrion_, of _all_ the Lannisters, want to kill Bran? The assassin had told of being hired by a blond under a cloak; presumably he would've at least _mentioned_ if the man was a dwarf. All Catelyn kidnapping Tyrion would do was piss off Lord Tywin, the queen and most of all Jaime, who loved his little brother dearly.

The news had surely reached King's Landing sooner than it had reached Winterfell, which meant Jaime had likely already caused trouble for her brother, the extent of which was harder to guess. Ross wouldn't put it past the man to abandon his post as a Kingsguard and ride after his brother himself. Despite all the things he'd seen, inside he was thirty three going on fifteen, reckless and hot-blooded.

She was right, of course. That news was slow to arrive, but soon came on a raven's wings, a letter in her daughter's handwriting. It was addressed to Ross herself, so she was the first to read it. Morganna had written to her a few times since arriving in King's Landing, nothing of great importance, merely who won in the tourney and how everyone was getting on. This time was different. Her daughter told of how Ned was unconscious in bed, his leg a tattered mess from his horse falling on him, due to an attack in the streets by two dozen Lannister men, led by the Kingslayer. The fact Morganna had written Kingslayer scarcely registered with Ross, as she felt her own face darken, and even Maester Luwin - who had delivered the letter unopened - paled slightly.

Without a word, she had risen from her brother's chair and left the room. The Maester didn't question her, and she went straight to the Godswood, nails digging so hard into her palms that the red crescents didn't fade. Everyone moved out of her way with one look at her face. She stood facing the tree rather than sat by the pool, staring into its great red eyes, jaw set in anger, wanting to scream until her voice gave out. She seemed to be feeling anger more than anything recently. Well, aside from fear, which fed the anger and was growing inside her, gnawing at her like a hundred rats, day and night.

_This was what it was like last time. Small occurrences, incidents, happening often, and growing more and more frequent, more and more serious, until something happens to tip the balance, and all hell breaks loose_. Jon Arryn's death. Bran's fall. Ned leaving. Catelyn's idiocy. Now this. It felt like the whole of Westeros was balanced on a knife's edge, and she was stuck up in the North, a land she loved but one that, at the moment, was half a kingdom away from her family in need.

Ross was not a politician or master manipulator, she wasn't a warrior or a lord, but at least she might have been able to talk some sense into some of the people she loved. Ned being Ned, he no doubt owned up to Catelyn's folly as if it were his own. Ren had spoken a little of the investigations her brother was making - Ned had mentioned little in his own letters to her, well aware that Pycelle read every one - and every word her son wrote convinced her that he should leave this matter, whatever it may be, well alone. Who cared about politics and intrigue far to the south? If Ross was in court, she might have been able to persuade him against it, or at least distract him to slow him down.

If she was in court, she might have been able to talk down a certain member of the Kingsguard before he attacked her brother in the streets.

The thought worsened her mood again. _Jaime, you bloody fool_. Ross wondered if he'd even stopped to consider that she might actually be slightly annoyed with him for ordering the deaths of three loyal men who she'd known for years, for creating a situation that resulted in her brother being temporarily crippled. In all honesty, likely he had considered it, and brushed it off. Act first and apologise later, that was his way of things. Likely it would work, too, if only because Ross couldn't even begin to think about what she would say the next time she saw him.

She knew exactly what she would say to Ned. _Come home, you noble idiot, come back to your children and your castle, to lands where people love and respect you, to lands far away from King's Landing and its shit_. Because if he didn't come home, Ross didn't know what she was going to do. She bowed her head before the heart tree, sinking to her knees on the damp earth. _I can't lose anyone else, Ned, I can't_.

Ross left the Godswood after an hour or so, her head somewhat clear, or clearer than it had been at least. She had been thinking; she was limited in what she could do here, as leaving Winterfell was out of the question. Robb was waiting for her in Ned's solar when she returned, his young face angry. He had been sitting in the lord's chair, but rose when she entered, the letter she had left in his hand.

"The Kingslayer will pay for this," He growled, slamming the parchment on the table.

"Doubtlessly," Ross tried not to show how weary she was, taking a seat opposite him along with Maester Luwin and making her tone even. "But think logically. For now, your father is fine. He'll be awake and walking in a few days, the injury will heal. No one else would have dared to act against him as long as Robert is king, and Jaime Lannister is gone. Most likely to join his father or fight for his brother, and there'll be no getting to him there. That problem, for now, is out of our hands. You can act like a lord and wait for retribution, or get yourself killed tearing off after one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms," Robb looked like he wanted to protest, but stopped himself, nodding tersely. This was not what he wanted to hear, but he was a sensible boy, and knew it made sense.

"What can we do, then?" He sat down.

"Your mother kidnapping Tyrion Lannister is the greater issue in truth," Ross said bluntly. "But we've discussed that already," That discussion had resulted in Ross sending a strongly worded letter in Robb's name to both the Eyrie and Riverrun - she was unsure which way Catelyn would go, but it certainly would not be Winterfell - for her goodsister to open when she arrived there.

The message itself was clear and concise, without any pretty words or pleasantries; along the lines of return the damned dwarf with heartfelt apologies, or Tywin Lannister will tear the Riverlands apart. Reports were already coming in of bands of men, doubtlessly working for the Lannisters, burning fields and terrorising villages. It was damning news for sure, but Ross hoped Catelyn had at least learnt that her actions have consequences.

Ross had learned that lesson herself long ago, both through the mistakes of men like Rhaegar and Aerys, and through actions of her own. _There's nothing like giving birth to a bastard, aged sixteen and unwed, to bring any illusions left crashing down_. It was a shame Jaime Lannister hadn't learned that yet either. Or if he had, he didn't seem to care.

* * *

"Mother," Ross looked up, rubbing her eyes and seeing Aileen stood at the door. It was a week or so after the letters had gone out, and she had slept poorly ever since.

"Yes?"

"I've been talking to Bran," Her daughter hesitated, and Ross suddenly noticed that her young nephew was stood behind Aileen, half-hidden. The girl's tone was enough for Ross to narrow her eyes and sit up a fraction straighter.

"Sit down, both of you," Aileen and Bran did so, the boy looking far too uneasy. "What's wrong?" Because something was definitely wrong.

"He remembers his fall," Even her normally stoic daughter was clearly rattled by something, which meant it could be nothing good. Ross glanced at her nephew, who was pale and wide-eyed. _Gods, do I even want to hear this, on top of everything?_ No, was the honest answer, but she would hear it nonetheless.

"What happened, Bran?" The boy took a deep breath.

"I know I didn't fall from very high," He said in a small voice, odd given he was normally very talkative and sweet. "But I'd been higher, before I fell. I'd gone all the way up to the First Keep, from the Broken Tower" He looked afraid that she was going to tell him off for that alone, but Ross remained silent. "I heard voices. A man and - and a lady. They didn't sound very happy, and I never see anyone up there, so I went closer to listen. They were talking about..." He screwed up his face, trying to remember exactly. "Father. They didn't like it that Father was going to be the Hand. They talked about other things, but I'm sorry, I really don't remember,"

"It's fine," Ross said, perhaps a little too snappishly, but her mind was whirring. "Carry on,"

"Then they went quiet, so I tried to have a look in the window," Bran continued. "They were... naked, and wrestling, I don't know what they were doing," Ross raised an eyebrow; this could potentially be very interesting if she found out who it was. _And potentially an even bigger headache_. "But then I made a noise and the lady saw me. She screamed, and I slipped trying to get away. I nearly fell but I caught the window ledge. They both pulled me up, but then they were arguing again. They seemed very scared, but I ran away. I suppose I was in such a hurry that I fell near the ground. I don't remember that bit either," There was a short silence

"Tell her who they were, Bran," Aileen prompted quietly then, hands clasped tightly in her lap. The boy bit his lip.

"The lady," He looked terrified. "She was the queen," Ross felt her own eyes widen, as Aileen gave her a hard look.

"And the man?" She kept her voice even, although a horrible idea was forming in her head. _No, it couldn't be... She hates him now, he was with me that day... although for how long? Gods, I'll kill him if he went to her scarcely an hour after he was with me. _

"He looked like a Lannister," The boy started. _Surely he'd recognise the Kingslayer_... And surely Jaime wouldn't have needed Cersei to help him lift a small boy up from a window; Bran was half the size of Ross herself and he lifted her easily. "And he was young." _What counts as young?_ "Maybe Ren's age. I think he was one of the king's squires,"

Ross relaxed at that, and immediately felt an absurd stab of amusement. It seemed like young Lancel Lannister had taken the queen's fancy. She probably shouldn't have found the thought as funny as she did, given the seriousness of the situation and the fact that she was a grown woman over thirty years old, but she couldn't help it, and started to laugh. Cersei Lannister, the proud and beautiful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a year older than Ross herself, was fucking her fifteen year old cousin. Who, she hadn't failed to notice, looked like a poor shade of the queen's dear twin brother.

"Mother?" Aileen frowned at her, surprised, but Ross couldn't keep the amusement from her face, biting her lip before laughing again.

"Sorry," She forced her face straight, but for the first time in years wasn't entirely successful. "I shouldn't laugh, I just - " She broke off again, trying not to grin. Gods, she hadn't acted this much like a silly little girl since she was giggling with Lya in the Maester's lessons over anatomical drawings in books. Ross focused on thoughts of her sister, which quickly sobered her up. "Who else knows about this?"

"No one but us," Her daughter replied, still looking at her oddly. "Bran only remembered after everyone had left. He's kept it secret for months." Calculatingly, that was what was in her daughter's stare. Ross shot her a Look, and she quickly stopped.

"Good, let's keep it that way," She looked at Bran. "You did well remembering this. It's very important, but has to stay a secret for now. Don't even tell Robb, or Maester Luwin,"

"I won't," The boy nodded solemnly. "But Aunt Ross - is this why that man tried to kill me?"

"Most likely," She didn't see any point in trying to sugarcoat it. "The man did tell us he'd been hired by a golden-haired man in a cloak. Probably Lancel, Ren always said he was a cowardly little brat. You shouldn't worry though, he's in King's Landing now, and not brave enough to hire anyone else after the first put us on our guard," She remembered the bloody mess the assassin had been found in. "Just keep that wolf with you,"

Aileen took Bran away, and Ross leant back in the chair, thinking hard. Her lips twitched. It was immature, she would freely admit, especially given this could potentially turn into a nightmare situation if handled badly, but soon she was smirking to herself again at thoughts of Cersei.

* * *

She heard the long howl from far away, and somehow she knew before the guardsman opened his mouth what he was going to say.

"Lady Rosennis," The man said. "Your son, he's - " Ross was already on her feet, hurrying to the door, down the stairs and out into the courtyard, just as a tall, lean rider trotted through the gates, a rangy black direwolf at the horse's heels. Crow, who had spent the days since the wolves returned north skulking about the castle scaring servants, when he wasn't hunting in the Wolfswood with the other five, had clearly rejoined his master. The horse was remarkably un-skittish around the great beast, which was now the size of a small pony, though you could see the whites of the animal's eyes.

Ross didn't rush to greet her son, merely walked forward, smiling slightly. Even though Ren would hardly be the bearer of good news, it was nice to see him again after only a few months apart.

"Mother," He dismounted easily. The moment he touched the floor, the wolf pressed its head into his hand. Ren indulged it for a moment before giving her a brief one-armed hug and taking his horse's reins; as a bastard, he didn't expect the stableboys to take care of his horse for him. As he began leading the mare towards the stables, the direwolf loped away, reunion clearly complete, and Ross fell in step beside him. _He's grown again_. He had to be as tall as Jaime now. At the thought of Jaime she scowled.

"Have you heard any word of Lord Stark?" He asked.

"Another letter from Morganna arrived yesterday," She said. "Your uncle awoke six days after you left, he can walk with a crutch. I overestimated Robert's ability to hold a grudge. He's been reinstated as Hand," It was one of the rare times she saw Ren's face drop.

"They're staying in King's Landing? All of them?" She nodded. His expression told her all she needed to know about what he had to say. "Right," Her son's face set grimly. They both knew he couldn't say anything here, not with all these people, so Ross changed the subject.

"Morganna also asked after you," She said. "You left her rather confused,"

"I could hardly tell her to put this in a letter," He raised an eyebrow slightly. "With Ser Jaime gone, Pycelle would sift through every word with his wrinkled old fingers,"

"_Ser Jaime_," Ross scoffed slightly, the anger that was so near the surface these days beginning to rise. It didn't help that her son shared the eyes of the object of her irritation. "Everyone seems to have lost their senses at once. First Lady Catelyn goes tearing off south on a harebrained mission, and kidnaps Tyrion Lannister based on nothing but her own paranoia. Then Ned lies to the king that it was his idea, to protect his wife when she's nowhere near the city, and to top it off, good old _Ser Jaime_ goes and attacks my brother in the streets in retribution," Her lip curled. "They all need their heads knocking together," Her son looked rather amused as he led his horse into a stall.

"It's a shame you didn't come south for that alone," He said, removing each of his bags from the horse's saddle, lowering his voice slightly. "I have got news, but it can wait," _Until we're somewhere more private_, went unsaid. They talked of nothing much of consequence after that as he untacked the horse. About the melee Ren had won - he showed her the gold dragons sewn into his jerkin, and she marvelled that he hadn't been robbed and left in a ditch with his throat slit - about how Morganna and the girls were faring in King's Landing, even about Ren's new horse. Ross had proclaimed the mare dull, to which her son had laughed and said he preferred reliability over horses who seemed to try their best to kill their rider.

It wasn't until they reached her chambers that Ren sat down and his smile dropped.

"Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen are not the king's children," He said straight away. Ross could only stare at him, silent for a long time.

"Please tell me you're not serious," Because every single implication of this was hitting her at once, and there was absolutely no way this turned out well for any of them. A cold feeling gripped her stomach, and got worse the more her son spoke. _Jaime, what in hells have you done?_

"That was what Jon Arryn was investigating. It's likely what he died for, if the queen found out," He said flatly. "And Lord Stark was being led down the same merry path, although he hadn't quite got there by the time I left. I'd hoped he'd leave before he worked it out," He frowned. "I was sure he'd leave," _And now you know you can never rely on things to go as planned_.

"What path?" Ross prompted, trying to work out how long it would take Ned to figure it out.

"The king's bastards are all black haired," Ren said. "There's a book, going back centuries. It shows that every single child with a Baratheon parent has black hair, no exceptions at all, including every time a Lannister married into the family. Loreon is living proof, as are the dozen more bastards scattered around the kingdoms. Lord Stark knows all of this, he just hasn't made the link between that and Cersei's children yet," Ross was silent for a moment.

"Bran remembered his fall," She said eventually, speaking carefully. "He slipped in his haste to get away from a window of the First Keep. Where he'd seen the queen, _alone_ with one of the king's squires. Lancel," Her tone more than implied what the pair had been doing alone.

"Lancel?" Ren raised an eyebrow, a smile immediately twitching at his lips despite the dire situation.

"I laughed too, at first," Ross said darkly. "He's fifteen, too young for it to be of much consequence. At worst, everyone found out and Lancel and Cersei both lost their heads. No loss there, I'm sure you'll agree," Her son gave a short snort of agreement. "But this? This could start a war," And her brother, lawful and loyal to his friend until the end, was on the cusp of discovering that information. Ned wasn't stupid, just pigheaded stubborn; he would recognise that continuing the investigation would put him in danger, knew exactly what could happen, but would plough on regardless because it was the right thing to do. "What did you do with that book?"

"I had Morganna return it to Pycelle,"

"You should've got your Lizzie Lewis to knock it into the fire by mistake," She muttered, pausing for a moment before letting out a hollow laugh. "Do you know who the father of Cersei's children is?" He seemed to notice her odd tone, but answered anyway.

"I've had a lot of time to think about it," He said slowly, as she watched him closely. "It would have to be one of the Kingsguard, the queen wouldn't be left alone with anyone else but her close family. Selmy, no, too honourable, too old. Oakheart seems to want to follow in his footsteps, although he's comely enough; if he hadn't joined three years after Tommen was born, I'd suspect him. Blount, Trant, Moore and Greenfield, all too plain, the queen wouldn't risk it for them. There's no chance a girl who looks like Myrcella is the daughter of a man who looks like Boros Blount," Even Ross smiled a little at that, until she realised what he'd unwittingly said about his own half-sister, and her smile dropped. "Then there's Jaime, her brother. So I suppose it must be Oakheart's predecessor in the Kingsguard. If not him, then it could be practically anyone who managed to sneak past the guards. Maybe a cousin is more likely. Has she got any older than Lancel?"

"Several," Ross shook her head. "But it's not them,"

"You know who it is?" He asked her sharply. She didn't reply, staring at some point to the left of his head. "Mother?" She raised an eyebrow - that sounded more of a command than a mere prompt - but obliged anyway, because she'd have to at some point.

"I think you passed over one member of the Kingsguard too easily," He frowned.

"Greenfield? Moore? Oakheart's predecessor, a man so dull I can't even remember his name? Who?" She smiled humourlessly.

"Lannister," There was a thick silence.

"Did you forget the part about the queen being Jaime's _twin sister_?" Her son asked, highly skeptical. "Or are you expecting Edrick and Aileen to have a litter of bastard children at some point in the near future as well?"

"You can make jokes all you like," Ross leant back in her chair, staring at him. "Jaime Lannister loved his sister since they were children. She was the reason he joined the Kingsguard, so they could be together. Only Tywin was furious at Aerys stealing his heir and took her back to Casterly Rock. After the rebellion, she married Robert. They still loved each other, or he loved her, at any rate. I'm not sure when it went wrong, but it ended at least two or three years later. Apparently enough time for three bastard princelings to be born," Ren wasn't skeptical now, merely watched her with hard eyes.

"How do you know all of that?"

"I heard the words from his mouth," She smiled humourlessly. At that, a dark look crossed her son's face.

"Have you got no self respect?" Even in anger, her son had never spoken to her like that before. Cold and harsh, angry and judging. Shocked as she was, Ross was not one to be spoken to in such a way, least of all from her own son, whether he was a man grown or not.

"And what do you mean by that?" She replied, her tone immediately icy.

"I know that Jaime Lannister is my father," His reply initially chilled her, but then she realised exactly what his first comment had meant, and her fury only rose. "I've known for years. And it wasn't just the once, was it, wasn't just a desperate affair under Aerys Targaryen's nose? I've known that for years too, and honestly, I barely cared. But now you tell me he loved another woman - his own _sister_ \- all this time, even _told_ you about it? And yet you still let him - " He broke off, biting his angry words and turning away for a second. "I thought you had more pride than that,"

There was another silence, worse than before. Ross could've slapped him, but she realised then he would likely reach out and stop her. He'd been stronger than her for a while, she knew that, but only now did it truly hit her. Her little boy was a man, a knight, with a sword and strength she'd never have, power she'd never have. Memories ran through her mind, of the noble Kingsguard guarding the door whilst Aerys raped her, of Jaime holding her back as her father burned and her brother died, of Roose Bolton's quiet but deadly words the night before their wedding.

"You don't want to hear the reasons I had at first," Her voice was colder, crueller, older than his, steady but clearly full of barely-restrained rage.

"Try me," He glared at her, and she gritted her teeth. _Is that what you _really_ want to hear, from your own mother's mouth? That it was a 'fuck you' to Aerys, a way that I could feel like my body was somewhat my own, a short time where I didn't have to think? No, you don't want to hear, and I don't want to tell you, because you have no idea what it feels like to be so powerless, and never will. _

"No. You're barely more than a boy, and I am your _mother_," The last word was practically a snarl, and she knew he'd hate being called a boy. _Good_. "I don't have to justify myself to you, so I won't. I had hoped my son thought higher of me than a gratuitous whore with no _self respect_," She saw him wince a fraction at that, ever so slightly, and felt a vicious stab of satisfaction. "Yes, Jaime Lannister is your father. Would you have preferred being the son of Mad Aerys to the son of the Kingslayer? Because if you want to hear the _honest_ truth, the chance of that was significantly more likely," She saw his jaw clench. "When you were born with dark hair and green eyes, I could've _wept_ with relief," She was increasingly feeling like weeping now, remembering that little boy she had sat on her knee, whispered to when no one else was there, cradled to her body as she rode out of the sacked gates of King's Landing at long last.

She didn't weep, though. Of course she didn't.

"One of my happiest memories," Her voice softened slightly, too weary to argue more. "Is of holding you in my arms as I watched the last Targaryen king bleed out on the floor beneath the Iron Throne," There was a silence. Her son stared at her, and she met his green eyes. Jaime's eyes, if slightly more pale, but they reminded Ross of her own father then. _No, that's not quite right_.

Then he broke the stare, backed down and leant back in his chair, the fight leaving his eyes. She saw a flash of an apology there, which she knew he wouldn't voice. She realised then how travel-worn and exhausted he was. _He must've ridden like the wind to make that journey in the time he did_.

"I was there? When Aerys died?" He asked carefully. Ross was used to holding grudges that lasted decades, but with her children, she found herself uncharacteristically forgiving. Neither of them were ones for flowery apologies. Forgiveness came through actions, and he had already redeemed himself slightly for backing down and changing the subject.

"I never told you that?" Her voice had grown hoarse. Ren shook his head. "Then, yes. You were one of three people to see Aerys die, and you don't even remember it," She smiled faintly, and her son did too. There was a pause.

"I saw you," He said eventually. "With him, at Riverrun. That's how I knew. I barely remember anything from that time, but I remember that,"

"The tourney?" She was surprised. "You weren't even four years old,"

"Old enough to climb out of bed and be curious about a crack in the door," There was a silence. "Morganna wasn't born long after that,"

"She wasn't," Ross raised an eyebrow, her tone flat but her eyes all but saying he was right, and to shut his mouth about it. "She was also a very small baby, born eight months after I returned from Riverrun. She has dark hair and grey eyes, and she's beautiful like my sister Lyanna," That was a conversation for another time.

"Arya looks like Lyanna," Her son said, noting but ignoring the hint. "_Morganna_ looks like the queen, with a longer face and sharper nose. That's why you didn't want her going south,"

"Speculate all you want," Ross said, not rising to the challenge. "It won't do anyone any good. You have enough to think about, now you know Joffrey is your half-brother," Ren looked vaguely disgusted by that, leaning back in his chair, and the look was so like Jaime she had to crack a faint smile, which soon fell. "And also the fact that the kingdom is on the edge of war, where peace depends on my brother keeping his honour in check,"

"Well we can't do anything from here," Ren said. She didn't disagree. "Any ravens sent to King's Landing now will be checked, and it's not like asking Tywin Lannister to just let this one go will do anyone any good," Ross snorted in agreement. "Do we tell Robb? He's the acting Lord of Winterfell. But short of calling the banners, what can he do either? Nothing,"

"We don't tell anyone," She said. "If Ned knows what Lord Arryn died for, he'll be on his guard, he's not an idiot, just a stubborn idealist. Cersei can't do anything openly against him, not with Robert as king. If Ned tells him the truth, Robert will kill Cersei, and possibly the children too. Tywin Lannister will go to war over it, for sure, but what allies does he have, really?"

"The Baratheons, through marriage, and they'll go to Robert of course," Ren replied. "Dorne hates him. The North and Riverlands don't trust him and would side with Robert, along with the Vale if it turns out Cersei killed Jon Arryn. The Reach will go to the highest bidder and whoever's most likely to win - inevitably the crown. Hells, even the Greyjoys wouldn't say no to a bit of pillaging the Westerlands,"

"Tywin's pride would drive him to ruin," Ross agreed. "He can't hope to win against six kingdoms,"

"That's our worst case, then," Her son looked amused. "A war that may destroy the west and Riverlands, which the North will surely be involved in but won't go anywhere past the Neck. Really, it could be worse," It was a dark joke, but Ross didn't laugh.

"Don't say that," It gave her a bad feeling. "When Rhaegar Targaryen gave my sister a crown of winter roses, everyone thought at the time that the worst thing to come out of it would be a few angry Dornishmen and Elia Martell's hurt feelings,"

* * *

The raven arrived a few days later, in the early morning. By nightfall, half the ravens in Winterfell's rookery had been sent flying.

The letter was written in Sansa's hand, but were doubtlessly the words of Cersei Lannister. Ross read it and everything else around her seemed to have become muffled and distant, drowned out by the ringing in her own ears. _Just like last time, this is just like last time_. Except the roles had changed. Ned was the one arrested in King's Landing. Ross was in Winterfell. The hostages now were her own daughter, her two young nieces. And that terrified her more than Aerys ever had.


	22. The Howling Of Wolves

The raven arrived a few days later, in the early morning. By nightfall, half the ravens in Winterfell's rookery had been sent flying.

Ren had been there to watch as Robb read the letter, the words of Cersei Lannister in Sansa's handwriting. His cousin's face had darkened the more he read, and when he looked up, eyes steely cold, he looked more a lord than he ever had done, more a Stark. He hadn't had to consult Ren's mother, or the Maester. His mind was made up already. Call the banners, and make the Lannisters pay for the great disrespect they had done House Stark in arresting his father.

_Treason_. His mother had scoffed at the word. Lord Stark was not capable of treason against Robert, though his supposed son was a different matter. That wasn't treason, however, as Joffrey wasn't the true king. The irony was not lost on Ren that the boy who had mocked him for years for his illegitimacy had turned out to be nothing but another bastard himself. He and his mother had ultimately decided to keep that information from Robb, for now at least. A war fighting for the return of Eddard Stark was one thing, whilst a war to topple the king from the throne - as his cousin would feel duty-bound to do - was quite another.

Having all but left his sister and cousins to their fate, along with Loreon and Lizzie, Ren wasn't particularly glad to be away from King's Landing himself. But even he had to acknowledge that if he'd been there, he likely would've died in the massacre. First of all because he hardly would have let the Lannister men take the girls without a fight, and second because he was worth very little as a hostage. Coupled with the fact that the new king despised him and was, quite literally, enough of a bastard to kill him for that alone, made it unlikely he'd have done more good there than he would here.

But Joffrey despised Loreon even more. Ren hoped his friend had had the sense to get out of the city before the killing started. Lizzie was smart enough to blend in with the other servants and escape into the city - and who would bother to go looking for a lowborn servant of the Stark girls? - but Loreon was another matter altogether. Ren liked to think that Winterfell would've heard if the new king decided to stick his baseborn brother's head on a spike, but news wasn't so reliable these days.

At least no harm would come to the three girls; surely the Lannisters had learned from the Targaryen's mistakes, if nothing else, although this was heading worryingly in that direction. _Cersei is not Aerys_, he had heard his mother say recently, more to remind herself than anyone. She was sleepwalking again, he knew. He had come across her himself a few times, muttering about her father and brothers, nonsense about wildfire and sharp nails, tears wet on her cheeks that she never would've cried when awake. The third time he had found her, still asleep, she had clung to his arm tightly. About to return her to her rooms, Ren had stopped dead when she called him Jaime in a mumbled voice, and decisively not mentioned it the next morning.

Over the next few weeks, every bannerman of House Stark arrived at the gates of Winterfell. The lords were given chambers in the castle, whilst the camp outside the walls grew larger and larger. Robb played the part of lord well, greeting every new arrival graciously and thanking them for bringing their men. Ren always stood to his right, some way behind him; people seemed to think him a sworn shield of his cousin, which he supposed he was. _I have a shadow that glowers at everyone_, Robb liked to joke.

The northern lords were a proud bunch, and a challenge to deal with all at once. Greatjon Umber was a domineering force of nature, who, though he respected Lord Eddard immensely, had little respect for his son, and Rickard Karstark was a proud, prickly old man who offended easily. The worst, however, was his mother's husband.

Roose Bolton spoke very little, watched a lot and unnerved most people as a rule, and Robb was no different - hells, Ren's mother was no different a lot of the time, and she was married to the man - although he did a better job than most of hiding it. Ren remembered the days of his own childhood, where Lord Bolton was a feared figure, one to never look in the eye or be noticed by in any way. The man had never shown anything towards him more than mild disdain and disinterest, but those pale eyes had given Ren many a nightmare as a boy. He had walked in on the man being leeched once, when he was seven, and had been unable to forget the sight since.

His mother hardly felt much better about her husband did he did. There were few people that scared her, Ren knew that, but he had seen the wary look in her eyes sometimes around him. The reunion of Lord and Lady Bolton after over half a year apart was hardly a loving one. His mother came out to greet the party as she had done with all the lords, but there were no fond words or embraces between those two, merely a mutual incline of the head, and a very slight amused smile on Bolton's part that lasted a second. That was another disturbing thing about him; everything seemed mildly amusing, mildly irritating, almost like a distraction, a game.

The only silver lining of Bolton's arrival at Winterfell, as Ren's mother had muttered to him earlier that day, was the news he brought of his mother, Lady Margaret's death. Which said everything, really. Aileen had been mildly saddened, having been the old hag's favourite, but that hadn't stopped her joining Ren and Edrick as they celebrated in private along with their mother, under the excuse of a talk to catch up with a flagon of wine. The twins' half-brother Domeric, who had ridden with his father from the Dreadfort having returned from the Vale several months ago, joined them. Though he had seen Aileen and Morganna on his last visit, he hadn't seen Edrick since he began fostering at Winterfell two years ago.

"I'm not toasting grandmother's death," Aileen said flatly when Ren offered her a cup, though she was smiling slightly, and he laughed. Domeric had no such inhibitions.

"Here's to no more of our _dear_ grandmother calling me a feeble Ryswell weed," He lifted his goblet with a thin-lipped smile. "No more being called a pillow-biter for liking books and playing the harp,"

"Here's to no more of the old witch pretending to mistake me for a stable boy and asking what in hells I'm doing in the castle," Edrick joined him with his characteristic way with words.

"Lady Margaret once told me that bastards should be left out in the snow as infants, and that Mother was planning to do it to me," Ren said. "This was after she tripped me up with her stick, outside in the yard," He showed them the scar on his palm where he'd split it open on a sharp stone during that encounter. "I think I was five at the time," Edrick snorted, whilst Aileen and Domeric looked on, amused.

"She tried tripping me, once," His mother smiled tightly. "I threw the stick in the fire. Then she had the nerve to say I'd clearly caught Aerys Targaryen's madness from spending so long in the south,"

"To Margaret Bolton," Edrick grinned. "Loving grandmother, gracious goodmother and a sweet, gentle lady, all agree," His mother snorted darkly, but they all drank, except Aileen.

"She was nice to me," His sister shrugged, then smiled slyly. "She said I'd make a better heir than either of you two," She nodded between Edrick and Domeric.

"She only liked you because you were a girl," Her twin nudged her with his elbow, and she swatted him away. He just laughed, turning to Domeric. "How was the Vale? Why aren't you a knight yet? Ren is," Domeric laughed lightly, whilst Ren smirked.

"Because I could beat him with a sword when I was seven," He had always liked his stepbrother, despite the three years between them in age, and had felt even more out of place than usual at the Dreadfort when Domeric was sent to Barrowton for four years aged ten, then to the Vale to squire for the Redforts.

"I'll have you know, Lord Redfort claims I have the makings of a tourney champion," The wording clearly amused him, knowing full well what most Northmen thought of tourney knights. "What say we try a joust, Snow?" There was a glint in his eyes.

"No. You'd win," Ren shook his head. "I can sit a horse well enough, but you're like Mother, Bolton. Half horse yourself,"

"Thank you," His mother said.

"How was King's Landing, my lady?" Domeric had always called her 'my lady'. Never 'Mother', which was fair enough. She had been kind to him as a child, but had never tried to be his mother.

"A cesspool of vipers and intrigue, as ever,"

"It sounds delightful," The sarcasm was barely noticeable.

"You'd hate it," She said. "No peace or quiet, and everyone wants to know your business," Domeric smiled at that.

"My father is good to let you travel so much," It was a passing remark, mere conversation. Hardly an impertinent or invasive question, but evidently Domeric had been away too long. Ren's mother's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Yes, isn't it good of him to let me," Her tone was barely polite, and the look in her eyes said plainly that she would've gone regardless, even if Lord Bolton had tried to stop her going where she wanted. She might be his wife, but she was fiercely Stark, and Stark still outranked Bolton.

It was a good point Domeric had raised, though. Ren had often wondered why Bolton permitted his lady wife to spend so long away from the Dreadfort in recent years, not only at her childhood home of Winterfell, but also travelling with her own handpicked guards to King's Landing and back, especially given she had a bastard son. Despite the fact she was a Stark and her beloved brother Lord of Winterfell, Roose Bolton was not a man who did anything he did not want to. He could easily have prevented her leaving, or at least limited her travels somewhat, as most husbands would have done. It made Ren think that he appreciated her being away. He wondered exactly what it was the man did that made him go to such generous lengths to avoid his wife's scrutiny.

There was a slightly awkward pause.

"Gods Edrick, I'd better not end up carrying you upstairs again," Aileen broke the silence, eyeing their brother dubiously as he drunk another cup of wine. Ren had noticed how much the boy was drinking several minutes ago, but letting him vomit himself to sleep and wake up with a pounding headache seemed a more effective lesson than chiding and nagging, which he would only ignore.

"You're my sister, not my mother," Edrick grinned, glancing at their mother with a daring look.

"Drink if you like," Their mother said. "But I'll be sure to tell the servants not to clean up any mess you make, and don't expect Robb to let you sit in on his war council smelling like vomit and ale,"

Edrick slowly drained the goblet, looking her in the eye. She arched an eyebrow at his insolence, which had no effect, to Ren's surprise. As wild as his brother was, that look could still have him obeying his mother last time they saw each other. Even Aileen looked a little shocked, though she narrowed her eyes at her twin, clearly trying to work something out.

"Pleased with yourself?" Their mother was clearly unimpressed.

"Very," Ren realised that Edrick did not even look that amused himself, despite the mocking grin. If anything, he seemed slightly angry. _He's drunker than I thought._ "What are you going to do, set your dog on me again?" The look in their mother's eyes went cold then, nearly as cold as they had during her argument with Ren after he arrived in Winterfell, but Ren was more interested in what his brother had to say. So was Aileen; she was watching like a hawk.

"You're drunk," Their mother said icily. "But if you continue acting like a child, I will give you a thrashing, I don't care that you're three-and-ten. You're not a man yet, so don't think I won't,"

"_He_ didn't care I was a child," Edrick snorted. Her eyes flashed dangerously.

"Domeric," She smiled tightly. "It's been a pleasure, but would you excuse us? Your brother seems to have forgotten his manners. Aileen, you too,"

"Of course, my lady," There was a curious expression on Domeric's face but he nodded, getting to his feet. "Goodnight, my lady. Edrick, Snow," He left the room with good grace, holding the door for Aileen. When it became clearly she wasn't moving anyway, he left without a word, mercifully shutting the door before Edrick continued to speak.

"He had a sword at my throat," He was on his feet now. "He would've killed me, if not for you. Yet you still - " He broke off, looking angry, and Ren suddenly realised what was going on. He glanced to his mother, who met his eyes with a sharp look. _Yes, he knows_. Aileen was looking sharply at each of them in turn. Clearly he hadn't told even his twin. At least he could keep the secret. _Until he has a few drinks, that is_.

"Who would've killed you?" The look in the girl's eyes was rather unnerving. "This is why you've been acting strangely all this time, out with it,"

"Renan, take your brother to his chambers," Their mother said in a low voice. "Aileen, stay here,"

"Edrick," Ren said quietly. "Come on, get up. It's late and you've drunk too much," The look in their mother's eyes was dark as she leant back in her chair, her face half hidden in shadow from the firelight and candles. Edrick let Ren take his arm. Aileen watched, silent, as they left.

"Do you know?" The boy looked up at him, drunken but fierce, as they walked down the dark corridor. "About the Kingslayer?"

"I known for years," Though hadn't known for sure until several weeks ago. It was better to sound certain. "But you don't see me blurting it out in front of your half-brother like a fool,"

"You're as bad as she is," Edrick mumbled. "What's so great about _Ser Jaime Lannister?_ He's cocky, violent, careless... rude... he broke Uncle Ned's _leg_... he ... " _Sired three children on his twin sister and passed them off as the king's?_

"You're not wrong," Ren couldn't help but smirk as his brother continued to list Jaime's many flaws, doubting his mother would disagree with many of them.

Having settled Edrick in his rooms, propped onto his side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit in the night, Ren returned to his mother, who hadn't moved from that chair, torchlight flickering across her face. Aileen was gone for now, but he doubted the girl would let this matter go. Perhaps it was because she hadn't been as troublesome a child and hadn't needed to be disciplined often, but his sister never seemed as affected by their mother's anger as the rest of them. She would certainly be asking her brother about it the next day.

"We're riding to war against the Lannisters," Ren started, and his mother gave a bitter laugh.

"Do _try_ not to kill each other on the battlefield, at least,"

"He'd slaughter me in a real fight, if he wanted to," He said honestly. "I might be as good as he was at my age, but he's had seventeen years more experience. And thirty three is hardly decrepit," There was a pause.

"I don't think he'd do it," Her voice was quiet now, slightly softer. "Kill you, I mean,"

"No," Ren hadn't even considered that as a possibility, and it was rather discomfiting to realise she had. "I don't think he would," He had seen Jaime Lannister nearly every day since he was ten years old_. _

"Would you?" She asked. "In the heat of it all. You've never been in a true battle. Say he's cut down northmen around you, dozens of them, men you've fought with, men you're friends with. Would you be fighting to disarm, or fighting to kill?"

"Not to kill," Ren said after a moment. His mother nodded, turning away slightly.

"Edrick saw us, in the godswood," She said. "The day of Bran's fall. He must've listened a while, we were talking... I saw him, I didn't recognise him, he'd hidden in the bushes. Jaime reacted at once, of course, tearing off into the trees with sword drawn. When I caught up to them he had the sword at Edrick's throat. He would've done it, if I hadn't got there in time. And if he had done it, if he'd killed my son, I - " She broke off, voice catching in her throat. "I wonder what I'd have done if wasn't Edrick, if it was some kitchen boy. Yes, we could have have paid him to keep quiet, threatened too, but if that secret got out... I'd be dead the moment Bolton saw an opportunity, be that that in a day or a year. And it wouldn't take a genius to make the link to Morganna. Bolton would kill her too. To trust that secret to some _child..._"

"It wasn't some child," Ren said flatly. "It was Edrick, and you got there in time. You've told me before not to drive myself mad over what ifs,"

"I was right," His mother said, expression dark as she stared into the fireplace. "Though it's easy to give advice. Harder to follow it. I've made so many terrible, stupid decisions that I wonder how I'm still alive,"

"And in that sense at least, you and Jaime are a well-matched pair,"

"After all this time, that's the only likeness I can find,"

"You're hardly alike in many other ways," He had to admit.

"When we first met, he used to say I was like a statue," She smiled wryly at that, not taking her eyes off the fire. "Grey, dull, stiff and unsmiling,"

"A true poet, that one," Ren rolled his eyes. His mother got to her feet then, facing him.

"I know it's meant to be noble to die in battle..." She started, almost hesitantly reaching out to place a hand on his arm. She shook her head. "Just... Please don't," Her words, very nearly vulnerable, coupled with the uncharacteristic display of affection, made any reply he might have thought of die in his throat.

All Ren could say was, "I won't,"

It was an empty promise, and both of them knew it.

* * *

The march for Moat Cailin left the next morning.

Ren rode at Robb's side as his cousin led the Stark forces, Grey Wind and Crow running at their feet. The bellowing of Greatjon Umber could be heard even from where he was directing his own men further back, and looking over his shoulder, Ren could see the small party heading north east for the Dreadfort, Edrick and Aileen amongst them.

"Edrick's furious at being sent back," His mother said from where she rode beside unlikely as it was that the North itself would be attacked, it would be folly to have all those of Stark blood under the same roof, and the Dreadfort needed a Bolton presence.

"He was already furious at not being allowed to come south," Ren said.

"He's thirteen," She said. "How well would you have taken being sent back home when there were battles to fight?"

"That would never happen," He smirked slightly. "At thirteen I was Jaime Lannister's squire, I would've been sent to war with him if I liked it or not, and who would object? It's not like I'm heir to anything,"

"The woes of being a lord's son," She gave a short laugh.

There had been a long debate over whether his mother would be riding south with them. Even she herself was torn over whether she would be more useful as a strong Stark presence to hold Winterfell, or riding with the Northern army. On the surface it seemed unlikely that she could do much to assist Robb, who had his lords to counsel him and his men to fight, but ultimately it was Ren who had persuaded her to come with them. They were riding against the Lannisters, he said, and who in the North knew them better than she did? And Robb needed another person in his retinue who was on his side, and his side alone.

Besides, they would likely meet Lady Catelyn and Ser Rodrik whilst crossing the Neck; it was better that Lady Stark would be the one to return to hold Winterfell and see to the Stark children, rather than Lady Bolton.

Sure enough, whilst they were camped at Moat Cailin, the wayward pair joined them. The atmosphere in that first meeting had been tense, Ren's mother still being furious with the woman for kidnapping Tyrion Lannister. Lady Catelyn also clearly had no intention of returning to Winterfell, and wished to join Robb in the south.

"My son needs me," She insisted, glaring at Ren's mother in the gloomy Gatehouse Tower of the ancient stronghold. "He is barely five-and-ten, leading an army, with his father imprisoned - "

"Robb is almost a man grown," His mother had said coldly. "Your other sons are eight and four respectively. They haven't seen you in months, and I was a poor sort of replacement. More importantly, do you think the men will respect Robb, if he fights a war with his mother trailing after him?"

"And I suppose an aunt is much better," Catelyn had said. "How will you help him in ways that I cannot, exactly, my lady?"

"I'm not his mother," She said. "And I'm capable of separating emotions from logic. A skill which you clearly don't possess, given that you've torn your father's lands apart on the vague suspicion that the Imp tried to kill your son,"

"Enough," It was Robb who spoke then, as Catelyn bristled with fury. He looked tired, older, as he sat in the chair at the head of the table. "Mother, Lady Rosennis is right,"

"Robb, if you mean to punish me then you don't have to do it like this,"

"The men won't show respect if they see me as a boy hiding behind his mother's skirts," He insisted. "Bran and Rickon need you. Winterfell needs you. I likely do as well, but it can't happen, you can't ride south with me. Aunt Ross is family, on my side but not so close as to hold back the hard truth. She also has an insight into the Lannisters that may prove valuable,"

"An insight," Lady Catelyn gave his mother the same look she gave Jon Snow whenever he dared to make a sound in her presence. Ren had been on the receiving end of that look several times himself. He wasn't sure if it was because of Catelyn's general dislike of bastards, or because she had recently clashed with his mother. "Is that what you call it, my lady?" Robb looked rather confused at that, but Ren's mother's eyes darkened.

"You met Varys in King's Landing, then," She said icily. "Your hear all sorts in that city. I spoke to Petyr Baelish when I was there last. He had things to say about you that would make your son's ears curl. Whether they're true or not, I do not know, nor do I care. His words are as true as we make them, as are the rumours and conjecture you're spouting now,"

"Enough, _please_," Robb said again, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. His lord's voice wasn't quite as good as Lord Stark's yet, and some of his agitation showed through. "Mother, I'm sorry. Ser Rodrik will escort you north to Winterfell, whilst we ride south to Riverrun," Lady Catelyn's expression faltered into hurt for a split second, before the cold mask of a perfect lady took over, the only weakness being her glassy eyes.

"As you wish, my lord," Holding her head high, she left the room at a brisk pace. Ren's mother's jaw set as she turned in a whirl of dark skirts and strode over to the window without a word.

"You did the right thing," Ren said quietly to Robb, who just ran a hand through his red-brown hair, looking weary. His eyes seemed more grey than blue, in this light.

* * *

Marching towards the Trident, their situation did not look especially good. All reports showed that Jaime Lannister had shattered the Riverlands forces at the Golden Tooth, capturing Edmure Tully as he did so, before laying siege to Riverrun itself. Lord Tywin's host was moving east, capturing castles along the way and closing the Kingsroad. The only way for the Northern army to enter the Riverlands, therefore, lay with the crossing at the Twins. A fact that Walder Frey would surely know.

Many things were said about Lord Walder, none of them particularly good. For this reason, most everyone advised Robb against entering the Twins himself to discuss terms for using the Frey's bridge. That duty ended up falling on Ren's mother, the only one highborn enough for the old man not to consider their choice of envoy an insult. Ren walked beside her as they entered the castle.

The majority of Lord Walder's vast family had a similar weak-chinned, weaselly look to them, he noted as the entered the hall to find them all assembled there. Lord Frey himself was a repulsive creature, old and shrivelled with a wife over seventy years younger than him. She was the eighth Lady Frey, and walked beside her husband, who had to be carried into the hall on a litter.

"My lord," Ren's mother inclined her head slightly. The old man squinted at her suspiciously.

"Is that it? No sweet words and a curtsey for an old man, Lady Rosennis? Why are you here? Is the Stark boy too proud to come before me himself? What am I to do with you?" Ren saw his mother's eyes narrow slightly.

"Father," Ser Stevron Frey said reproachfully. "You forget yourself. Lady Bolton is here at your invitation,"

"Did I ask you? You are not Lord Frey yet, not until I die. Do I look dead? I'll hear no instructions from you,"

"This is no way to speak in front of our noble guest, Father," One of his younger sons said.

"Now my bastards presume to teach me courtesy," Lord Walder complained. "I'll speak any way I like, damn you. I've had three kings to guest in my life, and queens as well, do you think I require lessons from the likes of you, Ryger? Your mother was milking goats the first time I gave her my seed," Ren glanced at his mother, whose eyebrow was raised slightly as Frey continued to speak. "Danwell, Whalen, help me to my chair,"

Two of his sons carried Lord Walder to the high seat of the Freys, where the old man beckoned Ren's mother forward, clearly intending to kiss her hand.

"There's no need for such courtesies," She said rather coldly. Frey laughed at that.

"A woman as uncourteous as I am," He said. "Perhaps now my sons will do me the honour of shutting their mouths. Who's this?" He turned to Ren abruptly.

"Renan Snow, my lord," Frey leered at that.

"Your bastard, my lady. Heh," Neither of them said anything to that. Frey, realising that he wasn't going to get a reaction, scowled. "Why are you here?"

"To ask you to open your gates," Ren's mother said. "My nephew is fighting a war, and must be on his way,"

"To Riverrun?" Frey sniggered. "Oh, no need to tell me, no need. I'm not blind yet. The old man can still read a map," It might have been asked why Lord Frey was not at Riverrun himself, given that he was still a bannerman of Hoster Tully, but that question would have led them down a route none wished to spiral into.

"To the other side of the river," His mother didn't trust the man, that was plain from her pointed reply. "We want to cross,"

"Oh, do you? That's blunt. Why should I let you? The Starks are no friends of ours,"

"If you don't, we will remain on this side of the river," She said coldly. "Twenty thousand men eat a lot, my lord, and don't think we'll be wasting our provisions when there's plenty of fresh food around your castle, ripe for the taking.

"You think to threaten me?" Lord Walder said irritably. "If you wish to starve yourself against my walls, so be it. We have food plenty on the other side," She smiled faintly at that, a rather unsettling expression she had clearly learnt from her husband.

"A long summer means a long winter, all know that," She said. "And none better than the Starks. You also know, as well as I do, that we can't siege your castle without crossing the river, but we can forage our way through half of your lands easily enough, leaving your winter supplies severely depleted. When your smallfolk rise up, we'll come to you again, asking to cross,"

"Your boy lord's bannermen won't content themselves to waiting that long," Frey sneered, irritated. "They'll storm the walls in the end, mark my words, and leave twenty thousand corpses to feed the fishes,"

"The North is patient," She replied simply. There was a silence, that stretched far too long to be comfortable. After a full minute, Frey seemed to realise then that she wasn't going to haggle.

"I will have Robb Stark take a Frey bride," He said, taking up her bluntness. "Two of my sons will be wards at Winterfell. Four more will squire for Northmen, one being Robb Stark. Then you can all cross my bridge. I'll even give you men," His mother smiled again.

"So long as I gets to pick out my nephew's bride myself, now," It was an odd request, but his mother seemed to know what she was doing, as Frey laughed.

"Quite right, quite right," He leered toothlessly. "Can't have the boy disappointed. I'll admit mine is an ugly brood, or most of them anyway," All the Freys were present in the hall as they had been speaking, and soon all the eligible young ladies were lined up for inspection, like horses at a market.

The girl his mother picked in the end was not particularly pretty. Lady Marianne was a girl of fourteen, and had the Frey look, with a small chin and mousey brown hair, though she was somewhat less weaselly than many of her cousins, and her big brown eyes were even rather pretty. She was also remarkably tiny, with a skinny build, no breasts to speak of and narrow hips. Ren thought back to Lord Walder's earlier words about the girl, then remembered the passing comment that her Vance mother had died in childbirth along with her second child, after a difficult first birth.

He realised then what his mother had done, and wasn't sure whether to be disturbed or impressed.

"Why that one?" Even Frey was surprised, and somewhat suspicious. "Not Fair Walda? Roslin? Arwyn?"

"Arwyn is a child, my lord," Ren's mother said without missing a beat. "And Fair Walda is too old," _Too old at nineteen? Hardly_. "Lady Marianne is much closer in age to my nephew, and a granddaughter of your heir, Ser Stevron, is she not? If House Stark is to entwine its fortunes with such a large house as House Frey, I'm sure you appreciate a preference of wedding into the main branch?"

Frey grumbled a little at that, but couldn't find any more obvious holes to pick in her explanation.

Robb took the news of his betrothal remarkably well, though asked Ren afterwards whether the bride his aunt had chosen for him was comely or not.

"She looks like a Frey," Was all he said, and his cousin had grimaced.

They crossed the river at evenfall, though it took hours to get the column across, despite a large portion being left with Lord Bolton on the east bank to march south to confront Lord Tywin's force. His mother had had misgivings about giving her husband control of half their army, but he was admittedly a better choice than the Greatjon. Ser Brynden Tully joined them on the other side, and he was invaluable in concealing their march south from Jaime's army camped outside Riverrun, as he and his outriders picked off any Lannister scouts he came across. Marq Piper was sent to harry the baggage train.

Robb came to Ren's mother as the drew further south, asking her if Jaime Lannister was reckless enough to be tempted out of his camp by a raid led by the Blackfish. His mother had closed her eyes for a moment before saying he was.

The Lannister host outnumbered theirs almost three to one. Which made clever strategy key, if they wanted a victory. The eventual plan was a good one, Robb's idea. Whilst the northern army hid in a wooded valley, the Blackfish led a raid on the Lannister camp whilst bearing Tully colours, succeeding in luring a large portion of the army into following them north of the Tumblestone river.

From where they were hidden in the trees, Ren could see the column moving. Even in the moonlight, Jaime was unmistakable. _He's not wearing a helm_. Then Maege Mormont's war horn sounded, a long, low sound that signalled the last of the column had entered the valley.

Grey Wind and Crow both began to howl. It was a truly eerie sound, but only made Ren's blood race even faster, the hair on his neck prickling as he imagined how it would chill the Lannister men below. He glanced to his left, where his mother was sat stiffly on her horse, surveying the valley with sharp eyes, which looked black in the moonlight, though her pale grey dress appeared silvery-white. She would stay on the ridge whilst the battle raged, waiting, and he didn't envy her that.

The Greatjon's horn blew in response from the far ridge, Mallister and Frey from the east and west, Karstark from the north. Arrows flew whistling through the trees, and the screams of the men below could be heard. Ren glanced at his mother; she gave him a stony look. Then Robb yelled, and they charged.

It was a bloodbath.

Ren had never been in a true battle before. He had fought outlaw bands and lone criminals in the Kingswood, but never anything like this. He was part of Robb's personal guard - along with thirty or so others, generally the sons of the bannermen - and Robb made sure to position himself in the thick of the fighting. It was chaos, steel clashing, blood splashing, men yelling in pain, horses screaming as archers killed them underneath their riders. And Ren had never felt more alive.

There was fear somewhere, of course there was, but it was a somewhat distant, detached feeling, buried under the wave of adrenaline and battle-lust that filled him. His sword was an extension of his arm, cutting a bloody path ahead of Robb. Crow was at his side, lean, lethal and savage, a dread beast, never straying too far from Ren's side. Like Grey Wind, the rangy wolf tore of limbs with ease, savaged faces, and every now and then let out another mournful, chilling howl along with his brother.

The battle could have lasted minutes or days for all Ren knew. Time went strangely in the heat of it all. But soon he noticed, with vicious satisfaction, that the Northmen were winning. The Lannisters had been hopelessly outnumbered as it was, only expecting to fight a small raiding force of three hundred. All around him men died, and most of them wore red.

He saw Jaime many times during the fighting. The man had ridden at the head of the initial column, of course, but the next time Ren saw him, his horse was being killed underneath him, and he disappeared into the fray, sword whirling above his head.

As more and more Lannister soldiers fell, Jaime suddenly appeared again, a flash of gold to Ren's right. He saw the look in the man's eyes. Jaime knew they were lost, and was heading straight for Robb, having gathered what men he could for one last, mad push. As Ren watched, Eddard Karstark was cut down by a golden sword, and his brother Torrhen, with a furious yell, leapt in to finish his fight despite having lost his shield. _Fool_. Jaime was the best swordsman in Westeros, Karstark had no chance. The boy would fall, as would Dacey Mormont, Darryn Hornwood, Wendel Manderly, the rest of Robb's battle guard, and then Robb himself.

Before he thought about what he was doing, Ren had leapt off his horse and into the fight, not in time to stop Jaime's sword cutting Torrhen's left hand clean off as the idiot tried to block the blow with his shield arm, but managing to deflect what would have been a killing blow to Karstark's chest. He found himself crossing blades with the man who had taught him to fight. He and Jaime looked at each other for a moment, green eyes on green. He thought of his mother's words from Winterfell... _what would you do? What would he do?_

His father's eyes glinted. And then the fight began.

It wasn't in earnest, Ren could tell from the moment they started. They had had training sessions where he'd pushed him more than this, admittedly without the battlefield backdrop of death and chaos. Once, a display like this would have easily beaten Ren, and would surely be the death of most men, but now...

To onlookers, it must have looked very strange indeed. Ren tried to provoke him into trying harder by slashing him across the face, a, irritating minor wound he should've blocked, but it didn't work. There was an odd sort of smile on Jaime's face, almost the equivalent of a shrug, asking what the hell he expected him to do. So Ren won, of course, and a ragged cheer went up at the sight of the Kingslayer disarmed and defeated. It was a hollow victory. Jaime had let him win, after all, none too subtly. He gave Ren a wry grin as he sank to his knees, sword as his throat.

As the sun rose, the sounds of battle died away, and all that was left was the howling of the direwolves.

Ren, limbs aching and a golden sword stuck into his belt, found his horse trotting around the stream with broken reins and a snapped arrow in her hindquarters. He managed to catch the mare's reins as she blew and snorted in pain, and rubbed her neck absently. _Best leave that arrow in for now, it'll only start bleeding_. A moderate wound to his leg he didn't even remember receiving had started to hurt. It had been done by a Morningstar, so the armour was dented too, digging in.

"Easy," He glanced up as Crow appeared at his side, black fur matted with blood and gore. He threw his head back and let out another howl, and the horse skittered sideways. "Quiet," Ren muttered irritably to the wolf, more than feeling the weight of his sword arm and the heaviness in his eyelids now as the horse tugged at the reins. He drew the golden sword, eyeing it distastefully for a moment before strapping it to his saddle.

He forced himself to appear more awake as Robb came trotting up on a piebald gelding, different to the grey stallion he had ridden into battle. A mob of exhausted men trudged behind him, bloody, dented and dirty like he was, but all grinning and clapping each other on the back. Theon and the Greatjon were amongst them, and between them they dragged Ser Jaime Lannister.

"Come on, Snow," His cousin called as they approached. Wordlessly, Ren checked the girth before swinging himself carefully onto the mare's saddle, making sure his leg didn't disturb the horse's arrow wound and wincing slightly as his own injury was stretched. He rode beside Robb as they made their way back up the sides of the valley, to where Lady Bolton waited with her guards.

His mother was pale in the morning light, showing no signs of tiredness as she sat tall on her horse, barely seeming to notice how it skittered under her at the sight of the approaching party. She shared a look with Jaime as they threw him to his knees in front of her.

"The Kingslayer," Hallis Mollen, one of her guards announced unnecessarily. Jaime raised his head.

"Lady Stark," He said, blood running down one cheek from the gash across his scalp. "It's been a while since I saw your face. I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have mislaid it. Your bastard saw to that," Her lips twitched slightly, sadly, as she saw Jaime's golden sword strapped to Ren's horse.

"Beaten by your own squire, ser?" She raised an eyebrow. "I suppose I should be glad it didn't end with my son's leg being shattered under a falling horse like my brother," He actually smiled at that.

"I forgot how you hold a grudge, Ross,"

"A pity," She said cooly.

"You address her as Lady Bolton," Robb cut in coldly. He laughed hoarsely.

"I'll address her how I like, boy,"

"Kill him, Robb," Theon Greyjoy urged. "Take his head off,"

"No," Ren and his cousin both spoke at the same time. Everyone gave him a curious look, which he glared at, replying sharply. "Do you want Cersei Lannister to murder Lord Stark, his daughters and my sister?"

"He's more use alive than dead," Robb agreed. "And my lord father never condoned the murder of prisoners after a battle,"

"A wise man," Jaime said, clearly mocking. "And honourable,"

"Get some irons," Ren's mother spoke over him. "Greatjon, he's eyeing your sword like the direwolf does a steak," Jaime had the nerve to laugh at that, and she shot him a glare.

"Do as my lady aunt says," Robb commanded. "And make certain there's a strong guard around him. Lord Karstark will want his head on a pike."

"That he will," The Greatjon agreed.

"Goodbye, my lady," Jaime smiled at Ren's mother as he was led away. She glanced at him but said nothing.

"Why would Karstark want him dead?" She asked them instead. "Besides obvious reasons," Robb looked away into the woods, with the same brooding look that Lord Stark often got.

"He... he killed him..."

"Lord Karstark's son," Galbart Glover explained.

"Eddard," Robb said. "He crippled Torrhen and injured Daryn Hornwood as well,"

"No one can fault Lannister on his courage," Glover said. "When he saw that he was lost, he rallied his retainers and fought his way up the valley, hoping to reach Lord Robb and cut him down. And almost did,"

"He mislaid his sword in Eddard Karstark's neck, after he took Torrhen's hand off and nearly split Daryn Hornwood's skull open," Robb said. "All the time he was shouting for me. If they hadn't tried to stop him - if Ren hadn't gotten there in time..."

"Hornwood is fine," Ren said a little harshly. "Torrhen isn't, but he'll live, and it was his own fault for forgetting he'd lost his shield and trying to deflect a blow with his wrist. As for Eddard, well. He fought well. Rather him than you," An uncomfortable silence followed his words.

"He's right," His mother spoke. "They were sworn to defend you, and they did your job. Grieve when Riverrun is won, Robb. This was one battle, it won't win the war," Judging from the expression on Robb's face, he clearly agreed.

As Theon Greyjoy eagerly recounted the glorious battle to Ren's barely-listening mother, Ren tuned out. Until his own name was mentioned.

"Why did Lannister let you win, Snow?" Theon asked, half curious, half smirking. "I saw him fighting four knights at once at one point, and cut them all down too. You're better than most, but not that good, he was holding back for you," Ren gritted his teeth, seeing the look on his mother's face. _This is how rumours start_.

"The battle was lost, he was dead or a captive regardless," He said. "He's a cocky prat, but he's not a monster. Maybe he preferred to sacrifice some small pride than kill a boy he taught to fight," Greyjoy shrugged at that, soon moving on, but Robb was looking at him oddly, as were several of the other knights and lords that rode with them.

* * *

That night, as they sat around the fire outside Robb's tent, there was a commotion as a lone rider was dragged into the camp by several suspicious sentries.

"Just came riding up, milord," One of them said to Robb. "No livery, no arms, nothing. Says he's got a message,"

"Let's see it, then," Robb frowned, getting to his feet. "Let him go," The sentries stepped back, and the messenger straightened up.

"Beg pardons, milord Stark," The man was rather unremarkable, but Ren eyed the scroll of parchment he drew out of his pocket, sealed with plain grey wax. "The message is for Renan Snow alone," All eyes turned his way.

"Give it here," Ren stepped forward, breaking the wax seal and unrolling the message. Then he saw the familiar, surprisingly neat handwriting and smiled_ So you head isn't on a spike after all_.


	23. Ghosts

Morganna spent her days in a perpetual state of frustration. Though Sansa spent much of her time outside their rooms praying, in the sept or in the godswood, she herself had never been so devout, and could not remain still that long. Weeks passed, where all she could do apart from sit in her chambers was pace restlessly around the walls and yard of the castle, trailed by Lannister red cloaks.

She and her cousin had been given freedom of the castle, a reward more likely due to Sansa's good behaviour, her compliance in writing the letter to their family, rather than anything Morganna had done. It was a laughable sort of freedom, though. Cersei had set an 'honour guard' to follow them, supposedly to protect her future gooddaughter, but even Sansa could see that it was to make sure they didn't try and escape. Not that that would've been possible anyway, with the walls heavily guarded and nowhere to go even if they made it out.

Having found the room they were housed in to be unescapable after only a few hours in there, she spent three more days trying to disprove this - predictably to no avail - but even she wasn't stupid enough to try slipping past the guards when the maids brought their meals. If she made it past the ones on the door, she wouldn't make it out of Maegor's Holdfast, and she certainly wouldn't make it out of the Red Keep, unless she fancied throwing herself off the walls into the sea. That was still an option, of course, and an escape of sorts, but one she had shelved for the moment. So far, living under King Joffrey was still not quite so bad as certain death.

When the queen had given them permission to leave their rooms but not the castle itself, that had opened up a whole knew set of opportunities. Even with the guards trailing them, Morganna knew she had a chance of being able to slip away if she was quick enough, perhaps even slipping out of the castle, though the alarm would be raised immediately and she had no idea where she would even go if she made it out.

The girl she was less than a month ago likely would have tried it. Morganna hated to admit it, even to herself, but she was warier now, after the cruel fiasco that had been her and Lizzie's attempt at fleeing the city. She still bore the marks from that day; the back of her head was still tender even three weeks later, and where she had hit the ground her face had initially been an attractive shade of purple, dotted with grazes and scrapes from the debris on the cobbles. The cuts had mostly healed, but the bruises had faded into an even lovelier shade of greenish-yellow, as had the ones on her arms where the men had grabbed her, and hauled her to the castle.

She had gotten off lightly, though. Morganna didn't even want to think of what had happened to Lizzie. The last time she had seen her former handmaid had been her disappearing into a dingy alley with that gold cloak man, all to get them out. All for nothing.

Sansa had asked her of Lizzie, that morning in fact, the first time since this madness had started. Morganna, her mood worsening steadily the longer they were imprisoned, had snapped something at her, which had only served to make her cousin snippy in return. Irritated, unable to be bothered with another argument, Morganna had left their chambers, scowling.

Her mood hadn't been improved by the usual display from the other courtiers towards her - avoiding catching her eye, but looking curiously after her, muttering behind their hands about traitorous northmen and the barely civilised people - but she didn't want to see them affecting her, so made a point of smiling her widest, most dazzling smile at each one. She hoped it was unnerving.

Morganna usually made a point of avoiding the gardens of the keep, preferring the relative solitude and trees of the godswood - or even better, walking on the walls with the sea breeze blowing in her hair and looking out at leagues of nothingness - to the fragrant flowers and perfectly neat beds of the gardens. However, that day she was passing the entrance and saw a flash of golden hair moving through the archway, immediately making a beeline to follow without waiting for her guards to catch up.

The princess was there, of course, walking with her septa. Morganna had not been permitted to see her friend since Lord Stark had been arrested, and she doubted that had changed at all, but before her guards could stop her she was already striding forward.

"Myrcella," The princess looked up from the flowers, face breaking into a smile even as her eyes darted over Morganna's shoulder at the two red cloaks.

"Lady Morganna," The girl quickly hugged her, an uncharacteristic move for the two of them, but Morganna soon realised it was deliberate; what Lannister guards would dare lay a hand on the princess? Even when Myrcella broke the embrace, she still linked their arms, turning to the guards and her accompanying septa with convincingly innocent eyes. "You don't mind if we take a short walk around the gardens, do you septa?"

"The Bolton girl is not to speak with anyone save her cousin," One of the guards grunted, even as the other looked uneasy. Morganna pulled a face; despite herself, she did get along with a lot of the guards they assigned her. She bored easily without someone to talk to, and figured she might as well make the most of the company she was stuck with, which turned out to be surprisingly decent a lot of the time. Most of them seemed surprised she was bothering to talk to them at all. But this one was new, and had shut down any attempts at conversation she had made, scowling as she laughed at her own jokes and tutting at his fellow guard whenever he spoke with her.

"Are you disobeying your princess?" Myrcella didn't back down. The girl seemed dutiful and sweet at first, a perfect lady, but was far from a pushover. She stood up to this man like she'd stood up to Joffrey so many times before. "What would his Grace have to say at a Lannister guardsman treating his sister such?" The man glowered, but the other quickly stepped forward.

"Remain in the gardens, if you please, princess," He said with a friendly smile, glaring at his partner. "Lady Bolton is not to be let out of our sight. I'm sure you understand,"

"Of course, Ser," Myrcella nodded graciously at that, with a faint smile. Morganna was hardly so subtle, grinning smugly at sour-face and giving a jaunty wave as her friend led her away at a sedate pace, arms still linked; if she couldn't openly rebel and escape, then the least she could do was be as intolerable as possible to those who hated her. Once they were out of earshot, but still in sight of course, the princess spoke in a low voice. "Are you alright?"

"Bored out of my mind," Morganna couldn't keep the smile off her face at being reunited with her friend, after so long with only Sansa for company.

"Only you could be so cheerful with your uncle in the Black Cells," Myrcella smiled rather sadly. She shrugged, to distract from the flash of anger she knew would be in her eyes.

"They say he committed treason,"

"They say he did," Neither of them knew any more on the subject than that, so had little to say about it. "But I was asking about your face. How did that happen?"

"Oh," Morganna's smile returned. It was easy to forget about. "Did they tell you I tried to escape the day it happened?"

"No," Myrcella narrowed her eyes. "Go on," So Morganna told her everything. She hadn't even told Sansa half as much, leaving out most of the scene at the Mud Gate and particularly Lizzie's exact role, and it was somewhat of relief to say the whole story out loud. By the end, the princess' jaw was clenched.

"We were kept in that room for a week," Morganna finished. "But we're allowed _freedom of the castle_, now, thanks to your dear mother," She spoke sarcastically, with a pointed glare back in the direction of the guards. "You're the first decent person I've spoken to in weeks,"

"My mother won't allow us to speak again," The princess sighed. "Those two will tell her about this, for sure,"

"Worried I'll corrupt you?" She grinned. "You're as bad as I am really, you just care enough to hide it,"

"I won't deny that," Myrcella gave a small laugh. "But I'll still likely be forbidden from seeing you at all,"

"I'll break the rules for you," Morganna shrugged. "What are they going to do to me? They can't harm a highborn hostage, or what would be the point?" Her friend smiled at that.

"No, but they can lock you up in that room again," She said. Morganna rolled her eyes.

"I thought you were meant to be the brave one of your family?"

"Joff is braver than I am," The princess said rather slyly. "He once proclaimed that he should face my brother Loreon in a joust, and seemed to seriously believe he could beat him, because 'a prince is always better than a bastard'. Only Mother could convince him not to try it," Morganna laughed loudly, then had a thought.

"Where is Loreon now?" She knew from Ren that Joffrey despised his bastard brother, and regretted not thinking of him sooner. But surely Myrcella would look more upset if the king had taken her favourite brother's head off.

"Gone," Her friend said neutrally enough, though she heard the hint of relief in her voice. "He vanished the day father died. Joff was furious, but it's best for everyone, I think," Oh yes, it was the princess' father that had died. Morganna knew that, of course, but had always found it hard to relate the fat, drunken king to her friend in her head and hadn't consciously acknowledged it.

"Sorry about your father," She fought the urge to wince as she spoke the words. They sounded as insincere as they were. Morganna wasn't good at comforting people, though it was a good thing her friend didn't look like she needed it much.

"Thank you," Myrcella seemed to feel the same way, so she moved on.

"Speaking of vanishing relatives," Never let it be said that she couldn't keep a conversation flowing. "Have you heard anything of Arya?"

"No," Her friend looked more concerned by that than the mention of her father's death. "I thought she was just being kept in your rooms for behaving badly,"

"Did anyone tell you that?"

"No, I just assumed," Morganna was silent for a moment. "I haven't heard any talk of her, only you and Lady Sansa. She's not with you both?"

"I don't think she's here at all," She said slowly. "We haven't seen her since before my uncle was arrested, when we were all put together in one room. But she knew about the secret passages under the keep, she was talking about finding the dragon skulls. She must have escaped. Maybe she even got onto the ship Lord Stark had hired to take us to Winterfell,"

"I suppose that's a good thing," Myrcella said a little bleakly. "It's likely safer than here for her. That's awful, isn't it,"

"It was the same for my mother," Morganna looked away, remembering the woman's face when she had told her she was going south, coldly furious, but it had been the hint of desperation and fear that had truly scared her. Her mother wasn't scared of anything. "Well, not quite. It was worse for her," Joffrey had yet to murder her family in front of her, or, gods forbid, pay a visit to her bed. He was not quite the monster the Mad King had been.

"Listen," The princess gave her a sharp look, as they neared the completion of their circuit of the gardens. "You'll come face to face with Joff at some point, it's bound to happen. I know you hate him, but just do what he says. I know him, he's my twin brother. No matter how unreasonable, he's bound to think up something worse if you make him angry,"

"That's what you do, is it?" Morganna asked sarcastically. "You told me how you've been protecting Tommen from him since you were old enough to walk, and I've heard you mock Joffrey to his face,"

"I'm a princess, not the niece of a convicted traitor," She said bluntly. "And even my mother would have something to say if he laid a hand on me. You have none of that. You're on your own," Morganna gritted her teeth, and though she could see that her friend had a point, even the idea of following any orders that vile boy gave her made her angry.

"I can't promise anything," Was all she said.

* * *

Myrcella was right, of course. Inevitably, they did end up facing Joffrey.

Morganna had spent the first court session with the boy as king stood beside Sansa. The court was remarkably empty, but she paid little attention to that, focusing her efforts on glaring at the king and his mother as they passed various decrees. Tywin Lannister was named Hand of the King. Cersei, now the Queen Regent, was to replace Lord Stannis on the small council. Janos Slynt - Morganna had hated him on sight for the gold cloak on his back alone, which had fast turned to loathing as it was revealed that he was the one to betray Lord Stark - was given Harrenhal and a small council seat of his own, much to the displeasure of the remaining lords. Most notably, Barristan Selmy was dismissed from the Kingsguard and replaced by the Kingslayer as Lord Commander. Despite being offered land and gold to live in peace, he was deeply offended, tearing off his white cloak, throwing down his sword and storming out of the chamber. Morganna didn't bother to hide her grin as he loudly insulted Joffrey.

The king threw a tantrum, of course, and ordered the old knight to be seized. The frog-faced lickspittle Janos Slynt hastened to obey, as Joffrey then filled the vacant place in the Kingsguard with Sandor Clegane, despite the big man refusing to swear knight's vows. Ser Boros Blount objected briefly, but was quickly shut down.

Then Sansa stepped forward. Her cousin had seemed tense this whole session, but Morganna had put it down to being terrified of punishment, which was fair enough. She watched in disbelief, however, as she called out in a tremulous voice.

"Your Grace," _What are you doing?_ All eyes turned to the two of them. Joffrey smiled down from the Iron Throne as he saw her, and Morganna wanted nothing more than to wipe that slimy look off his face.

"Come forward, my lady," The king called out. Sansa moved forward, people parting to let her pass. _Gods sake_. Morganna hastened to follow her. As irritating as her cousin often was, she wouldn't let her stand alone in whatever foolishness this was. Though Sansa did seem to have a plan, and did an impressive job of not appearing too nervous, she had to admit.

"The Lady Sansa, of House Stark," The herald cried. "And her first cousin, the Lady Morganna of House Bolton,"

Sansa stopped before the throne, Morganna a step behind her.

"Do you have some business for king and council, Sansa?" Queen Cersei asked from the council table.

"I do." Sansa went to her knees. Morganna simply stepped back. "As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was the Hand of the King," Her words sounded polished and practiced. Cersei only sighed.

"Sansa, you disappoint me. What did I tell you about traitor's blood?" _Oh shut up, you two-faced old hag_. Morganna fought the urge to glare at the queen, forcing herself to stare at a particular blade on the throne, at eye level. She didn't want to have to look up at Joffrey.

"Your father has committed grave and terrible crimes, my lady," Maester Pycelle said, speaking to her like she was six years old.

"Ah, poor sad thing," Varys sighed. "She is only a babe, my lords, she does not know what she asks," Morganna couldn't help but turn to shoot a glare at the eunuch, but by some miracle the king actually seemed to be listening.

"Let her speak," He commanded. "I want to hear what she says," _Only because you'd love to hear her beg_.

"Thank you, Your Grace." Sansa smiled shyly, and Morganna resisted from rolling her eyes. _You'd be proud to see me now, Mother. I told you I could act a lady_.

"Treason is a noxious weed," Pycelle declared solemnly. "It must be torn up, root and stem and seed, lest new traitors sprout from every roadside," It was almost like he hadn't counselled King Aerys to let the Lannisters into King's Landing. Her mother had told her all about the characters at court before she left Winterfell.

"Do you deny your father's crime?" Littlefinger asked.

"No, my lords," Sansa said. "I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert's friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand until the king asked him. They must have lied to him. Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or... or somebody, they must have lied, otherwise..." Joffrey leaned forward at that, hands grasping the arms of the throne.

"He said I wasn't the king," _Here we go_. "Why did he say that?"

"His leg was broken," Sansa replied eagerly. "It hurt ever so much, Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy, and they say that milk of the poppy fills your head with clouds. Otherwise he would never have said it,"

"A child's faith... such sweet innocence..." Varys said. Morganna thought that one of the blades on the edge of the throne looked rather loose, and wondered how the eunuch would squeal if she threw it at him. "And yet, they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes," _He's on our side? Why?_

"Treason is treason," Pycelle said at once.

"Mother?" Joffrey looked restless, turning to Cersei. The woman considered Sansa thoughtfully.

"If Lord Eddard were to confess his crime," She said at last. "We would know he had repented his folly," Joffrey stood, and despite her skepticism, Morganna found herself wishing for him to grant Sansa's request.

"Do you have any more to say?" He asked her.

"Only... that as you love me, you do me this kindness, my prince," Sansa said. It was truly sickening, but likely the right thing to say, as Joffrey looked her up and down. It was a good thing Sansa was here; Morganna didn't think she could've forced those words through her teeth without throwing up her breakfast after.

"Your sweet words have moved me," He spoke as though he was gallant, nodding. "I shall do as you ask... but first your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I'm the king, or there will be no mercy for him,"

"He will," Sansa said, delighted. "Oh, I know he will,"

"One more thing," Morganna stiffened as he turned his gaze to her, his smile turning more into a smirk. "Your cousin has not said a word. Nor does she go to her knees before her rightful king. I would have her add her voice to yours in agreement," _Beg. He wants me to beg_. Morganna felt her face darken, and she gave the king the most poisonous look she could muster. There was a heavy silence, then she saw Sansa on the floor, looking at her with wide blue eyes, pleading. Joffrey was growing more agitated. She remembered Myrcella's words._ He really will kill my uncle if I don't_.

Morganna stepped forward and slowly knelt beside her cousin. She felt Sansa breath out in relief.

"Thank you, your Grace," She forced a grin on her face as she looked up at him. Some would take it to mean gratitude and happiness; others would see if for what it was, mocking and cold. "For gallantly sparing my uncle's life. The North will be... gladdened to hear it," Joffrey narrowed his eyes at her, trying to work out if she was laughing at him, but clearly decided she wasn't, sitting back and waving a dismissive hand.

As she quickly got to her feet, tugging Sansa up with her, Morganna felt someone's eyes on her. She glanced to the small council table, and saw Cersei Lannister giving her a rather odd look. Then the queen's eyes narrowed, and she looked away.

* * *

They were escorted to the Sept of Baelor in a litter. Morganna had never travelled in a litter in her life - even when she was too young to sit a horse herself, she had ridden in front of her mother, who wouldn't be seen dead in such a thing - and found it humiliating. Why couldn't they have just let her ride? It wasn't like she'd be going anywhere, the streets were packed.

"Stop wriggling around," Sansa didn't sound as annoyed at her as she might have done once. Her cousin had been in a much better mood after she had gotten Joffrey to agree to spare her father, even more so when Lord Stark agreed to confess. Even Morganna had to admit that she had done well, so had in return tried to irritate her a little less. It was proving rather difficult, not because she was incapable, but because annoying Sansa was the one true amusement left to her.

The litter was set down, and they both stepped out, finding themselves at the top of the steps, outside the Great Sept. The bells were ringing, and a crowd was gathering below, hundreds and thousands of citizens come out to see the show. Disdaining them, Morganna trying to peer through the hordes for any sign of Lord Stark. Unable to see much at all, even from up here, she turned to those on the steps.

Vipers and liars were all around them. Joffrey was strutting around in gold and crimson, his mother beside him in black, as if she truly mourned for King Robert. Five of the Kingsguard were there too, including the Hound. Varys, wearing slippers and patterned robe, was gliding between the various lords, and Littlefinger was also present, laughing and joking like nothing was wrong.

She hated them all.

"Your father gets to go free," Morganna muttered to Sansa. "Well, not free, to the Night's Watch, you know what I mean. But what happens to us?" It was a question she had been considering for a while.

"I'm sure once Mother and Robb come to King's Landing to pledge fealty to Joffrey, we'll go back home with him," Sansa shrugged. _That's very optimistic_. Her cousin hadn't stopped smiling all morning, knowing that her father was to be spared. Though Morganna was glad they had assurance of that too, she had a bad feeling that wouldn't leave her, preventing her from being entirely content. She didn't think that returning home was going to be that easy at all. At the very least, Sansa would remain in King's Landing as a hostage to ensure the Stark's good behaviour; she was still Joffrey's betrothed, after all.

"You should have worn Stark colours," Morganna said to her cousin absently. The girl was wearing a sky-blue dress.

"That would have caused trouble," Sansa frowned slightly, looking her up and down. "You're pushing things enough, wearing that gown,"

"White and gold is hardly rebellious," She had to smile at that. "I'm not a Stark, and besides, there's not a hint of grey on me," Though the skirts _were_ largely white, the bodice was equal parts white and gold. "I should chastise _you_ for turning yourself into a Tully flag. Red and blue, with silver jewellery," She tutted in mock dismay, and tugged at the end of one of Sansa's plaits. Her cousin batted her hand away, irritated.

"You're nearly as bad as Arya," She hissed impatiently. "This isn't a game, Morganna. We _mustn't_ cause trouble," _Like I didn't know that already_. Morganna was about to reply with something sarcastic, when she saw the crowd begin to stir towards the back of the square.

"Is that him?" She asked sharply, squinting. Sansa immediately followed her gaze. Sure enough, Lord Stark was being dragged through the crowd by goldcloaks, all shouting obscenities and insults at him. He could barely walk due to his broken leg, the cast covering it having grown grey and rotten. They half-carried him up the steps, and his eyes landed on them, checking they were unharmed. Though he wore fine new clothes, done in grey and white velvet, he was very thin, and his long face, so much like her mother's, Edrick's, Jon's and Arya's, was pained. Then he was turned around to face the crowd.

The bell ceased to toll, and quiet slowly settled across the plaza. Her uncle lifted his head and began to speak, his voice thin and weak. Morganna heard people shouting things like, "What?" and "Louder!" Janos Slynt stepped up behind him, prodding him sharply. Morganna gritted her teeth. _A butcher's son, pushing around the Lord of Winterfell like a trained monkey_.

"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King," Her uncle said more loudly, his voice carrying across the plaza. "And I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men," The crowd had began to scream and shout, taunts and obscenities filling the air. A glance to Morganna's left showed that Sansa had hidden her face in her hands.

Lord Stark raised his voice still higher, straining to be heard. "I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to defend and protect his children, yet before his blood was cold, I plotted to depose and murder his son and seize the throne for myself. Let the High Septon and Baelor the Beloved and the Seven bear witness to the truth of what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,"

A stone came sailing out of the crowd, and hit him in the forehead. The only reason he didn't fall was the gold cloaks on either side. Blood ran down his face, and more stones followed, most missing him but hitting several of the guards and knights. Morganna smirked as she saw Slynt get struck, nimbly dodging a rock herself. Two of the Kingsguard stepped in front of Joffrey and the queen, protecting them with their shields. Then the High Septon knelt before the pair of them.

"As we sin, so do we suffer," He intoned. "This man has confessed his crimes in the sight of gods and men, here in this holy place. The gods are just, yet Blessed Baelor taught us that they are also merciful. What shall be done with this traitor, Your Grace?"

A thousand voices were screaming, but Morganna's eyes were on Joffrey, as he stepped out from behind the Kingsguard.

"My mother bids me let Lord Eddard take the black, and Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father," He looked straight at Sansa then, and smiled. In that smile, Morganna saw something cruel and hateful, and her stomach froze in dread even before he opened his mouth again. "But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"

The seconds after his words didn't quite seem real, like it was happening to someone else, a bad dream. _A living nightmare_. The crowd roared, surging forward. The High Septon clutched at the king's cape, and Varys came rushing over waving his arms, and even the queen was saying something, but Joffrey shook his head. Lords and knights moved aside as he stepped through, tall and fleshless, a skeleton in iron mail, the King's Justice. Sansa had fallen to her knees, sobbing hysterically. Ser Ilyn Payne climbed the steps of the pulpit.

The executioner gestured and Janos Slynt gave a command. The gold cloaks flung Lord Eddard to the marble, with his head and chest out over the edge. Sansa was still screaming, but Morganna had realised that her legs still worked and she wasn't frozen in place. Forgetting that she was only twelve, forgetting she was a skinny girl, forgetting that in the end, it didn't matter what she did or not as it wasn't going to stop them, she leapt forward. She wasn't sure what she was planning on doing, but didn't have time to work it out, as a huge gauntleted hand caught her around the waist before she was even halfway there, with so much force that she gasped for breath.

"Get off me!" She kicked and squirmed and tried in vain to hit whoever held her, seeing the white armour of the Kingsguard and the flash of a scarred face above her. _The Hound, I'll never break his grip_. "Get _off,_ get off, this wasn't meant to happen, he's meant to take the black! They're going to _kill_ him," She was met with only silence from her captor, as the world descended into chaos around her.

Ser Ilyn drew a two-handed greatsword from the scabbard on his back. As he lifted the blade above his head, sunlight seemed to ripple and dance down the dark metal, glinting off an edge sharper than any razor. Ice. He was going to kill her uncle with his own sword. Her mother had already lost a brother and a sister, both to the madness of the Targaryens, she couldn't let her lose Lord Eddard as well, she wouldn't, it wasn't right, they couldn't -

The sword came down. Lord Stark's head came off. Morganna stopped struggling and just stared, feeling the tears roll down her cheeks.

The crowd was beginning to disperse. Sansa was still on her knees, sobbing inconsolably and shaking like a leaf. Morganna wasn't sure if the girl had actually seen it happen or not. She hoped not. It was horrible, her whole body was shaking, icy cold or boiling hot, she couldn't tell.

She felt the Hound loosen his hold on her as she had stopped trying to fight, and she stepped forward, away from him slightly, in half a daze at what had just happened. _He's dead. They really did it_. Varys, Littlefinger, the High Septon, even Cersei, all wearing varying expressions of shock and distress, were conferring together. Janos Slynt and his men carelessly rolled over Lord Stark's body, his new grey doublet now stained, the embroidered direwolf's head turned red with blood. Another man collected his head, holding it by the hair.

And in the midst of it all, she saw Joffrey.

Before she could even think about what she was doing, that it was a terrible idea, that it would almost certainly get her killed, Morganna strode towards him. Her hand drew back, the way she had seen her brothers and cousins do, the way Edrick had done back in the yard at Winterfell, and as he finally turned to see her coming, she swung her fist with all the strength she had into his cruel, handsome face. She heard a crack.

What there was left of the crowd to see roared again in surprise, many of them laughing. The king staggered, and would have fallen had one of the Kingsguard not caught him, and someone was shouting. Morganna wasn't sure who, the ringing in her ears preventing her from distinguishing a single voice as she drew back her fist again, ignoring the fact that her knuckles were bruised, hurting, bleeding. Unfortunately, Joffrey was hastily dragged out of reach, and someone caught her arm, bending it painfully behind her back. She grimaced, swallowing a yelp of pain, biting her lip so as to not cry out.

"How dare she lay a hand on me? I am the king!" Joffrey was screaming, furiously clutching his nose, which Morganna was grimly satisfied to see was bruised and bloody already, likely broken. "Ser Meryn, strike her!" She hardly saw the gauntleted hand coming before it backhanded her across the face. She did cry in pain then, falling to her knees. This action proved unpopular with the remaining crowd; booing and angry muttering could be heard. Joffrey was oblivious. "I want that northern savage's head, along with the traitor Stark's! I - "

"Take them both back to the castle," Cersei was clearly furious that Morganna had dared strike her son, but at least had the sense to see that killing a twelve year old girl on the steps of the Great Sept would turn the day into even more of fiasco than it already was. _You're sense kicked in ten minutes too late, your Grace_. "Now! Hurry," Two pairs of arms dragged Morganna to her feet, rushing her back to the litter along with Sansa. _I've changed my mind_, she considered dazedly as they were carried through the still rowdy crowd, hearing the jeers and curses. _Litters aren't so bad after all_. At least there were no stones thrown at them.

* * *

Sansa was still weeping as they entered the Red Keep. Without really thinking about it, Morganna draped her arm around her cousin's shoulder, too numb to really process what had happened. Her hand ached and stung, her face hurt too, and her uncle was dead. What did that. mean for them? She knew the answer already. _War_.

They were hurried across the yard before Joffrey arrived back, no doubt to keep him from demanding her head again. Perhaps it was unwise - it was almost certainly unwise - but in that moment, Morganna cared very little for the fact the king wanted her dead. They'd surely come for her later, when things were more quiet and private, but least she'd had the pleasure of seeing blood spurt from his nose, as she'd had to watch it spray from Lord Stark's neck.

But when they reached the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast, only Sansa was allowed to cross. Morganna was held back, and Sansa was torn away even as her cousin clung to her, her blue eyes wild and panicked.

"No, _no_, don't, not her as well!" It was the wildest she had ever seen the girl, but Morganna couldn't even begin to enjoy it as Sansa was forced into the holdfast, and she herself was dragged away. "Please, she's just a girl, she didn't mean to, she didn't know what she was thinking. Morganna!" She wanted to call out something mocking and brave, but couldn't find the words.

She was deposited in the cells. Not the Black Cells but the highest level, above ground, intended for highborn prisoners. The room was basic and plain but comfortable enough, with a bed, table and chairs and a selection of books. A cell was a cell, though; she was shoved roughly inside, the door locked behind her. The window was glass, but too small to climb out of, even for her. A spider made it's web in the corner of the windowpane.

Morganna realised then that she might never see outside of this building again.

At the time, she hadn't cared whether she lived or died, simply wanting to make Joffrey hurt however she could. That last part hadn't changed. _I hope I broke his nose_. But she didn't want to die. The Lannisters had proven they cared nothing for keeping highborn hostages alive. Feeling the panic start to rise in her now the adrenaline was wearing off, Morganna began to pace this room as she had done the room - _cell_ \- in Maegor's, rubbing her bruised knuckles and blinking furiously. She wouldn't cry, no she would not.

* * *

It was dark by the time they came for her. She was led back to the Holdfast, up to the queen's solar, where she was shown inside to be met by Cersei. Morganna sat, in front of the woman's desk, and squashed her fear and grief with anger and hatred. It wasn't so hard to do.

"You struck the king," The Queen Regent looked down at her with great dislike and anger, all those sweet smiles gone, her tone vicious. "You humiliated my son in front of half the city. You _broke his nose_,"

"Your son took my uncle's _head_," Morganna had to laugh, incredulously. _I'm likely dead anyway, why shouldn't I laugh?_

"Lord Stark was a confessed traitor, you insolent little wretch," Cersei snarled, grabbing her wrist with claw-like fingers. "How dare you laugh in my face, having laid a hand on the king? You'll be lucky if I don't have that hand taken off! Joffrey is still demanding your head," A sudden thought occurred to her, that made remarkable sense.

"The North is already marching to war," Morganna was amused by the realisation, perhaps out of sheer relief, which made her giddy, which made her reckless. "And Joffrey wasn't meant to kill Lord Stark. _Two_ headless hostages won't be much use," From Cersei's gritted teeth, she knew that she was right. "You can't kill me,"

"Don't even _think_ you won't be punished for this," She snapped, grip on her wrist tightening painfully. "I heard about your little jaunt with my daughter in the gardens. That won't be happening again for a start. I've half a mind to throw you in the Black Cells, the same one your uncle was rotting in,"

"You know your mad son will kill me in my sleep if you leave me there," Morganna tried to grin like nothing scared her, hoping that translated into her voice. She expected another snarled response to that, as the queen opened her mouth, only to close it again abruptly. There was a pause, where Cersei only stared at her. "Your Grace?"

"Has there ever been a Lannister - Bolton marriage?" The sharp question came out of nowhere, and Morganna frowned warily.

"No," Gods, she hoped the woman wasn't planning on marrying her off to Tommen or, more likely given she hated her, the Imp. "Never, that I know of. Why?" Instead of the expected reply, telling her not to ask impertinent questions, the queen's eyes narrowed.

"When were you born?"

"I'm two-and-ten - "

"I know how old you are, what was the day you were born on?"

"During the ninth moon," Morganna was confused now. "The twenty-second day. My nameday was during the Hand's tourney," Cersei sat back, not taking her eyes from Morganna's face. The queen looked as though she had seen a ghost.

"Who do you resemble more, your mother or your father?"

"Why do you - "

"Answer me," The snarl was back. Morganna hesitated.

"My mother," She said slowly. "My hair, my eyes, my long face. More Stark than Bolton. Mother says I look like her sister did, Lady Lyanna," At this, the woman's lip curled, and her eyes grew dark. Of all the things she had done, only this gesture actually managed to scare Morganna.

"You do not look like dear dead _Lyanna_," She practically spat out the name. "Or my late husband would not have treated me as he did," What did _that_ have to do with anything? "Tell me, has Lady Rosennis ever spoken to you of anyone from my house? Did she ever meet any Lannister cousins? Daven, Damion, Gerion, Tygett, Damon?"

"Perhaps?" Morganna guessed, nonplussed by the queen's sudden sharp focus. "I don't know. The only time she's ever spent in the south has been at court, she's never been to the Westerlands," Cersei's expression darkened, and she looked away for a moment before speaking again.

"What about my brother?"

"Ser Jaime or Tyr - "

"Jaime," She cut her off impatiently.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Answer me," Cersei grabbed her wrist again, leaning over the desk so that her face was inches from Morganna's. "Or I will drag your sweet little cousin out of bed and order Ser Meryn to give her a matching bruise to your own," Morganna gave her a vicious glare, but obliged.

"I don't know what you think I'm going to say. They were both in Aerys' court during the rebellion, so I suppose they knew each other? She doesn't talk about him, unless she's talking about my brother Ren, his squire. Why would she? Our family and the entire realm calls him Kingslayer!"

"Your bastard brother," The queen narrowed her eyes even further, leaping on that. "Did anyone ever say why a knight of the Kingsguard, the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, deigned to take on the bastard of some northern whore as his squire?"

"My mother is no whore," Morganna shot back. "The Kingslayer made Ren his squire because he and mother knew each other, it was a favour. And Ren's very good with a sword, everyone knows that. You _saw_ that, he won the melee," Cersei did look like she'd forgotten that, but it did not seem to improve her mood at all. "What do you care about my brother? My mother?" _Who'll kill you some day, for taking her brother's head_.

The queen ignored her, having got to her feet and stormed across the room. She was breathing heavily, clenching and unclenching her fists, her beautiful face twisted into an ugly expression of rage.

"Get out," She breathed.

"What, just like that - "

"_Get. Out_," Morganna got out.

As she was walking down the corridor, escorted by a noble knight of the Kingsguard, she heard what sounded like glass smashing from the room she had just come from. She couldn't help but smile to herself. She had no idea how, but she had avoided punishment, for now, and had pissed Cersei off enough to have her breaking things. _A success, all things considered_. Then Morganna remembered Janos Slynt holding up her uncle's head, and her smile fell abruptly.

They took her back to her room with Sansa, perhaps not knowing what else to do with her. Her cousin was still awake when she made it back to their room, and scrambled off the bed to meet her, throwing her arms around her. Morganna staggered slightly, but did hug Sansa back.

"I thought you weren't coming back," Her cousin sobbed into her hair. Sansa was tall, but for now, Morganna was slightly taller. "I thought they were going to take you to the cells, or beat you again, or take your head like Father," Though Morganna had lost her beloved uncle - who she considered more of a father than her own - she had to remember that it was Sansa's own father who had been killed in front of them. And Ned Stark hadn't been like Roose Bolton or Robert Baratheon; his children had loved him dearly. _She_ had loved him dearly.

"Course not," Morganna smiled tremulously, feeling tears well in her own eyes, a combination of fear, frustration and grief. "The queen just as good as admitted she can't harm either of us. Not after - " She broke off, though Sansa didn't seem to hear her.

"He p-promised," Her cousin shook in her arms. "Joffrey. He said - he said he'd let him live," Morganna awkwardly patted her on the back. She had never been very good at the kind of comfort Sansa needed. She grieved, of course she did, but in a different way.

"Joffrey lied," She merely replied quietly.

Neither of them slept well. Morganna heard Sansa lying awake in her bed well into the night, trying to weep quietly, whilst she herself didn't even bother changing into her nightdress, remaining fully clothed as she sat in the chair by the window, staring out into the darkness. Was it that she couldn't be bothered, or that she still feared being dragged from her bed to some dark cell?

Morganna must have fallen asleep at some point, though. She dreamt of her mother's hard eyes, dreamt of her mother's voice, whispering the words, _I told you so_.

* * *

_Small sections of text in this chapter (some of the throne room scene, some of Ned's beheading) are from A Game Of Thrones, written by George RR Martin._


	24. Ours Is The Fury

He sat in the rookery at the very top of the Sea Dragon Tower, quill in hand, though the letter he was attempting to write was largely forgotten.

Loreon Storm had only been to Dragonstone twice before this. The first time had been shortly after he arrived in court, a brief trip made with his father and several others. The second time had been when he was thirteen, and was an official courtly visit, which of course the king had insisted on bringing him on, both to spite the queen and show off his bastard son who looked so much like him. Ren had been with them, then, brought along as the squire to the Kingsguard. The two of them had spent their mornings sparring with the Dragonstone knights in the yard, and their afternoons exploring the crags and ridges of the island with a few of the local boys.

They had even brought little Tommen along on one occasion, dressing him up in plainer clothes and claiming him as a pageboy. The prince had enjoyed himself greatly, making friends with some of the smallfolk boys his age and getting covered in dirt and dust like the rest of them, only to be scolded furiously by his mother upon their return, who demanded Loreon punished for leading her son into trouble. The king had just laughed, of course, saying he was glad Tommen was being toughened up. Loreon's dear aunt had given him hateful looks for the rest of the visit, though that was hardly any different from usual. Ren had somehow escaped blame on that occasion, as he normally did, by melting silently into the background without even trying as the queen had stormed into the yard to catch them coming back. He was irrelevant to Cersei, simply her brother's skinny northern squire, not worth bothering with. _Lucky bastard,_ Loreon had remembered saying after, and his friend had smirked faintly.

Those days were only four years ago, but it felt like a lifetime since.

Loreon glanced out to sea through one of the large arched windows, seeing the tiny speck of a fishing boat rolling on the waves, far away. He wasn't usually one to enjoy peace and quiet - he was like his father in that sense, at least - but recently he found that he did like being up here alone in the tower, where the only noise was that of the ravens, and the sea crashing onto the rocks far below them. There was only so much diplomacy and plotting he could take before even he had to come away for a while.

His dislike for quiet was hardly the only thing that had changed. His father was dead, slain by a boar. In truth, his death was no great surprise; fat and drunk as the man was, his heart likely would have burst soon enough. Admittedly it didn't take a genius to work out that something would go wrong when the king had roared that he would kill this one single-handedly, given the amount of wine his father had drunk. Loreon remembered the squeal of the boar, the awful ripping of flesh, the blood, the smell, the king's entrails hanging out as he gave a great roar and slew the beast anyway.

He knew in that moment that his father was a dead man, no one survived a wound like that. It was miracle enough that he held onto life for the several days it took to return to King's Landing, along with another day after that.

Loreon had visited the king's deathbed, and said his last farewells, but had been gone from the castle before his father drew his last. Lord Stark would be a good Regent, but Joffrey would be king nonetheless. His half-brother despised him, his aunt even more so, and with King Robert not there to stop them, one of the pair would see him dead within a moon's turn.

So he had packed and prepared to leave the city with all the gold he could carry from his tourney winnings. He slept poorly in a seedy inn by the docks, a dagger under his pillow, then woke early that morning to buy passage to Dragonstone. Stannis had no particularly affection for his brother's bastard son, but Storm's End was too far for now, even though he would have received a warmer welcome with his Uncle Renly. The Westerlands would have been even better, but that meant getting dangerously close to the turbulent Riverlands, and besides, he didn't particularly like the idea of fleeing back to his mother and her husband.

The ship set sail as the bells of the Great Sept began to toll, marking the death of the king. The deck was dotted with sailors and a dozen other passengers, and they all knew what the bells meant, but none knew that it wasn't his king Loreon mourned, but his father. For all Robert Baratheon's faults, he had been that at least.

Ordinarily he would've tried to make conversation with his fellow passengers, or offered to help the sailors, but today he simply stood at the stern of the ship as they sailed out into Blackwater Bay, staring at the high up walls of the Red Keep on the hill. There looked to be more activity there than usual, he noticed, squinting up at the battlements. _Hold on_...

"They're fighting, up at the castle, look!" A nearby sailor called out, and many of the passengers hurried to the stern to look. He was right; though they were too far away to see clearly who was fighting who, the faint sounds of clashing steel could be heard even at this distance.

Everyone had all kinds of theories, of course, and Loreon absently listened as he tried in vain to make out the colour of the men's uniforms.

"It's the queen what killed King Robert," A fat merchant was insisting. "The Lannisters are always up to no good," There was a hum of agreement from everyone at this; most people of King's Landing remembered the Sack all too well.

"I've got the best eyes in King's Landing, and that there's goldcloaks fighting the redcloaks," Another man swore.

"Rubbish," An older woman scoffed. "That's red and gold fighting white. I bet it's that Hand, Lord Stark. Those northerners are just a bunch o' wildlings waiting to take over - I heard they can all turn into wolves! He's probably done for poor Prince Joffrey by now,"

"Maybe it's that bastard of the king's, starting a mutiny to take his trueborn brother's crown,"

"Isn't his mother a Lannister too? Why would he?"

"No, it's the _queen_ who's a Lannister, fool,"

"King Robert got a bastard on his wife's sister, before they were married,"

"Why did he marry Queen Cersei, then?"

"Have you had a look at the queen? What man would turn his nose up at taking her to wife?"

Loreon, grinning slightly despite himself, said nothing.

The journey from King's Landing had taken over three days, and Dragonstone had hardly given him a warm welcome.

It had started to rain by the time he made the climb up to the castle from the harbour, so Loreon was dripping wet by the time he reached the gates. A disagreement with the guards on the gates had ensued - in this state he hardly looked like the son of a king, even a bastard one - but he had managed to convince the men to at least take him seriously. They had escorted him inside, to old Maester Cressen, who had served at Storm's End for decades and only had to look him over to know that he was who he said he was.

Then they had taken him to Stannis. Or rather, Stannis and his red witch.

His uncle received Loreon in his solar, as stony-faced as ever, his stony demeanour contrasting with the woman behind him.

"Lord Stannis," Loreon bowed slightly. "Lady Melisandre. I've not had the pleasure of meeting you before," She was beautiful, with a heart shaped face, and very tall, slender and shapely, but there was something odd about her presence nonetheless. Her hair was red, her gown red, and she wore a huge red ruby choker around her neck. The woman smiled serenely, inclining her head at his greeting.

"Loreon Storm," Her voice was richly accented. His uncle, however, was unmoved.

"Well?" No greetings or pleasantries, but he had expected nothing less from the man. "Why are you here?"

"I'm sure you've already heard that my father is dead," Stannis nodded sharply, once. "Joffrey is king now. The boy despises me, as does his mother - if I stayed, I'd have been dead within the week," The fact the man did not dispute this said everything, really. "I might not have lasted the day, given the fighting I saw from the ship. Do you know anything of that?" Stannis stared at him for a moment, seeming to consider whether to tell him or not, though for all the expression visible on his face he could have been contemplating that evening's meal.

"Lord Stark was arrested, his men killed and his daughters taken prisoner,"

"_Arrested?_ Why?" Loreon raised an eyebrow sharply. "The last time I saw my father, he was making the man regent,"

"Supposedly, Lord Stark commented treason," Stannis gave a derisive snort. "He tried to seize the throne from Joffrey, proclaiming him a false king before Robert's body was even cold,"

"You say that like you don't believe it," He phrased it carefully. His uncle misliked assumptions, and Loreon was constantly aware of the red woman stood at the man's shoulder.

"I believe every word," Stannis replied. "Every word of Stark's, that is. I have no love for the man, but he has a sense of duty, at least. He would hardly betray Robert's son, and did no such thing, despite moving against Joffrey," Loreon stared at him for a few moments. Had it been anyone else, he'd have believed them to be joking, but his uncle was hardly the type.

"You believe Joffrey is not Robert's son," It wasn't a question.

"I don't believe, I _know_," Stannis' jaw clenched. "I've known since long before Lord Arryn died. I suspected the truth, so I investigated. Robert would hardly have believed me, particularly on such a matter as this, so I approached his beloved foster father. That truth is likely what Jon Arryn died for," He spoke with such conviction, and anger, that suddenly the idea did not sound so ridiculous after all. But Loreon was hardly going to take such an accusation at face value.

"So who is Robert's rightful heir, then?" He asked pointedly. "Tommen?" Stannis scoffed.

"Don't play those games with me," He glowered. "You know full well what I meant. All three of Robert's children are bastards, and I am the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," _How fortunate for you_. But his uncle valued duty over all else. If he truly believed Joffrey was the rightful king, Loreon honestly doubted that he was the type to make a grab for the throne himself. But where did he get these ideas from? Stannis certainly believed it was the truth, but was he correct?

"Others won't see it that way," Loreon tried to be diplomatic. "I'm sure you can see how it would look. Your brother dead, and you suddenly start bringing up accusations against his children that, if true, would make you king," He saw Stannis' eyes narrow, and quickly continued. "I'm not saying that's what _I_ think, but before you start making claims - which I imagine you intend to do?" His uncle gave a sharp nod. "You need proof,"

"You think I don't have proof?" Stannis snapped. "Proof is here in front of me, dressed in your clothes and sitting in your chair. Proof is in your dark hair and that of Edric Storm. Robert's bastard in the Vale is black of hair also, as is another working in a King's Landing armoury, as is an infant girl in one of Littlefinger's brothels. All the king's baseborn children have the Baratheon look, including his son with his wife's own sister. Yet all his trueborn heirs resemble their mother,"

Loreon thought on that, coming to an uncomfortable realisation. _Gods, he's right._ The consequences of that were unimaginable. Actually no, he could imagine them well enough, and wasn't sure if he entirely disliked what he saw.

"Do you have any idea who the father of Cersei's children is?" Stannis' jaw clenched even further.

"The Kingslayer," He ground out. It took a moment for that to sink in. Loreon blinked in surprise, and would have laughed had his uncle's face not been so deadly serious, so clearly disgusted.

"You're saying her _twin brother_ fathered all her children? Surely not even _Cersei_ \- "

"I have a letter, written in Eddard Stark's hand and sent the day Robert died, claiming that the queen confessed the truths of her vile incest to him personally,"

After Stannis showed him the letter - clearly resenting having to prove anything to his bastard nephew, but doing so regardless for reasons he didn't share - Loreon had been convinced.

The next weeks had been spent trying to get the man agree to allow him to sit in on his war councils. As far as Stannis was concerned, Loreon's status was simply that of any young knight serving on Dragonstone, which did not warrant a seat at his table, which was irritating.

_It's not like he hasn't got the room_. So far the only houses backing Stannis were the lords sworn to Dragonstone, the lords of the Narrow Sea; Velaryon, Bar Emmon, Celtigar, Sunglass. Ser Davos Seaworth had been sent into the Stormlands to try and win the support of the lords there, but had so far been unsuccessful.

So with little else to do, and knowing his uncle was too stubborn to even hope to persuade, Loreon had played to his strengths.

He had approached the proud, fierce Lord Monford Velaryon first. Men like him were rather easy to befriend in truth. A little flattery, and when the inevitable suggestion of a spar in the training yard was brought up, prove himself skilled whilst letting the man win at least half the time. Velaryon clearly saw Loreon as inferior, yet not so inferior as to be not worth bothering with; he might be a bastard, but he was a king's son, and his mother was a Lannister. Once the two were on friendly terms, it was easy to get him talking about what went on in the war councils, easy to work out what Velaryon felt about each of the other lords and Stannis himself, easy to see any potential problems that may or may not arise.

Duram Bar Emmon was next, a fat and feeble boy of fifteen who was rather wary of Loreon at first, but once he offered to help the boy become a better fighter, and took him out drinking with several of the other young knights, Duram became loyal to a fault. Much of the same information could be wrung from him as from Velaryon, but the boy, though weak-willed, was shrewder than he seemed and saw what Loreon was doing. He didn't seem to care though, freely sharing anything he knew.

Guncer Sunglass was easy. The man was pious, and prayed three times a day; all Loreon had to do to win him over was join him in the sept a few times, voice his concern over Melisandre's growing influence and confess that he often prayed for his mother over the shame of having him out of wedlock. Old Ardrian Celtigar, with his slimy smile and cynicism, was harder to get in the good graces of. Loreon couldn't make it too obvious that he was trying, and that man was still a work in progress.

But in the meantime, he had integrated himself into the workings of Dragonstone itself. He often went drinking with, or sparred with, the castle guardsmen and the many knights the lords had brought with them, fitting into both groups easily and making many friends there. He was known in the kitchens for regularly donating his hunting kills, and always made sure to smile at the servants. The armourer in the town knew him by name, as did every innkeep on the island, and many of the dockside workers, all of which were valuable sources of information if he ever needed anything found out. And he spent time with his cousin, little Shireen, who was always glad for any company given that most shunned her for her greyscale scars. The girl was sweet, but very intelligent, despite that strange old fool Patchface she kept around.

Loreon's aim in all of this was to somehow convince his uncle that he would be useful for _something_ of note. Stannis was famous for his blunt way of speaking, a way that did not tend to inspire likability or foster agreement, and often managed to get people's backs up. He didn't think his uncle would lower himself enough to ask for Loreon's help when the man was convinced that he was right, and it was everyone else's solemn duty to follow his orders without question, but it was a start at least.

It had worked, though.

"I see you inherited my brother's talent for making friends," Only Stannis could say that like it was a bad thing, like the words themselves were distasteful. "My council is rife with mentions of how generous Loreon Storm is, my daughter sings your praises and is there any man in the garrison who you haven't bought drinks for?" Loreon refrained from grinning, merely nodded.

"I doubt it, my lord,"

"I suppose you're pleased with yourself," His uncle ground out. "I've had enough of games in this castle. You can put those _talents_ to good use. Seeing how Seaworth and every other man has failed me, we can see how the lords of the Stormlands take to their beloved Robert's bastard reminding them of their duty. If you can wrangle a reply out of Renly, do it,"

Remembering that conversation, Loreon smiled faintly as he looked out to sea again, then glanced back down at his letter, almost finished.

_**Snow,**_

_I'm not dead, though that's likely only because I escaped my dear aunt's clutches. I'd apologise for leaving your sister behind, but the situation hardly allowed for anything but getting the hells out. I have arrived on Dragonstone, to find Stannis is proclaiming himself king, and Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen to be bastards - born of incest of all things - with a letter from Ned Stark as proof. _

_You won't have heard any word from Dragonstone, though. I believe the current plan is threatening silence, but hope that will soon change. My uncle is planning his next moves carefully._

_The claims are outlandish, I'll admit, especially given they're coming from Stannis, the rightful king if they're true. I didn't believe it at first, but the more I think, the more it makes sense. If anything, it's good news, as the true king doesn't want to see my head on a spike yet, though I'll definitely be asking Jaime a few questions next time I see him._

_You probably worked all this out months ago, sly bastard that you are, but in case you haven't, tell your cousin. I hear you're marching to war, and what better way for the North to receive its vengeance than dethroning the little shit who imprisoned Lord Stark? Stannis is planning to send an official letter, announcing his claim and calling for the lords to do their duty, but I thought you'd appreciate the advance warning regardless. I'm sure young Robb will appreciate all the allies he can get, and this letter puts things rather more pleasantly than Stannis' demands will._

_I'm due to set out for the Stormlands in a few days, so don't bother replying. Not sure what's happening there, Storm's End has gone oddly quiet. That's why I'm going, I suppose. No one there knows I'm with Stannis yet._

_Try not to die. If there's a way to sort this mess out without Tommen, Myrcella and Jaime dying, I hope to be able to find it. I'm still half-Lannister after all, for all the Storm in me, and I won't have it said I turned my back on the family that claim to have raised me. Though Tywin, Joffrey and Cersei can go bugger themselves for all I care. _

_Your friend, Loreon Storm_

Despite the fact he was writing it in the rookery, the letter would be sent by rider, as the Northern army could be anywhere by now. Loreon knew most of the castle garrison by name, and could ask any number of men to do the job. His tourney winnings would help greatly with that, he was sure. _Look at me, paying my way like a true lion_. He snorted slightly at the thought.

He had never felt like a Lannister. He had been raised in Casterly Rock until he was eleven, but his position as a bastard was certainly made clear. Though he received a knight's training, sparring in the yard with the sons of lords, and was taught his letters and basic sums by the maester, he was certainly not part of the family. At feasts, he was sat on the benches amongst the guardsmen, his care as a child was largely left to a single elderly nursemaid, and Lord Tywin's eyes passed over him as if he was just another face in the rabble.

Of course, it was hardly the worst life, and people throughout all seven kingdoms put up with far worse. But Loreon had seen the full maester's education his cousins were getting, seen that they were being equipped with the skills of a lord, a battle commander, not just those of a warrior. The thought of his entire future consisting of being a household knight in Casterly Rock was rather bleak.

He had always known he knew he could do so much better. Perhaps _that_ was his Lannister side talking. It was ungrateful, he knew - many smallfolk boys would kill for a chance like his - but despite what Lord Tywin liked to pretend, Loreon _was_ half a Lannister, and that ambition, which seemed to have skipped out his mother and Jaime, ran in his veins too.

When his father had summoned him to court, he had been a rather sullen boy in truth; though he made friends easily, he also angered just as fast, learning early on in life to use his fists and size to deal with those mocking him. In Casterly Rock, he was simply Loreon, a bastard son, and everyone just accepted that for what it was. People expected little of him.

But in King's Landing, he was the _king's_ bastard. The queen despised him (though he knew that already from times she had visited the Westerlands), but his father had treated him like a shiny new toy. Here was a son he could be proud of, Robert Baratheon had loudly claimed after watching him beat his fellow squires in the training yard, or kill a stag in a hunt, or finally snap back at Queen Cersei after one of her veiled insults against his mother.

In the Red Keep, Loreon learned that being a friendly face, being likeable and charming even to strangers and those he disliked, was the easiest way to get ahead, despite his closest friend having a rather different view. Renan Snow was cold towards strangers, with his mother's sharp tongue and a reserved manner that intimidated many. The fact that he had the best swordsmen in the castle - aside from the Hound, Barristan Selmy and Jaime Lannister - since he was fourteen only added to that. But where Loreon had been in the spotlight the moment he arrived, with the big scandal surrounding the king bringing his baseborn son to court, Ren had been invisible, just some northern boy, who was skilled at not being noticed. For a while he had even been able to pass as a servant to those that didn't know him, though word soon spread of the young squire who could give grown knights a run for their money. As half a Stark too, King Robert had noticed him more often than normal.

Ren was most likely sat at his cousin's right hand now, fighting his war alongside him. Perhaps that was due in part to his mother - Rosennis Stark held sway over her family like Giana Lannister never had - but Loreon knew his friend liked Robb, and was liked in return. Part of him wished for a family like the Starks, stern and solemn but loyal to their own, even the bastards. He had met Jon Snow in Winterfell, who aside from Lady Catelyn's dislike, had been raised largely the same as his trueborn brothers. And though Ren had been treated arguably worse than Loreon in the Dreadfort, his mother had never looked at him any differently to her other children.

Loreon's own mother was rather different. She had only been fourteen when she gave birth to him, and it was almost like that sense of childishness had remained in her mind when it came to him. When he saw her with her trueborn children, she acted like a mother, telling them off when they misbehaved and making sure they were neat and presentable. To him, she had always acted more like a sister. Perhaps that was because she hadn't been there to see him grow, he wasn't sure. On her visits to Casterly Rock she would spoil him and hug him and bring him toys, but was always uncomfortable when it came to doing anything remotely motherly. Even in recent years when she had come to see him in King's Landing - with Loreon now older than she was when she had him, and more than a foot taller - no one could say that they looked like mother and son.

He got up from his seat by the windowsill, rolling up the parchment, the ink having dried. He could no longer see the fishing boat on the water anymore, though there were dark clouds building up on the horizon.

Loreon Storm sighed, turning away from the window and preparing to switch on his friendly smile as he descended the spiral staircase.

* * *

It took ten days to reach Storm's End from Dragonstone, and one more to travel from where they had reached land further down the coast, given there was no safe anchorage near the castle. Loreon had always liked Storm's End. It was an imposing castle, hardly beautiful like Highgarden or Starfall, but its strength was so evident just from looking at it, and the wind ever-blowing off of Shipbreaker Bay always seemed to carry the promise of a storm. He had been in the castle for such a storm once before, and the howl of the wind, the roar of the sea, the flashes of lightening and booming thunderclaps so loud it sounded like the sky itself was splitting open, echoing through the walls of the very castle itself, had made his blood race.

Unlike Dragonstone, Loreon and the four men accompanying him were welcomed in with open arms upon approaching the gates. Having passed through the huge curtain wall, the castellan, Ser Cortnay Penrose, came down to greet them, glad to see him and clapping him on the back.

Penrose had been castellan of Storm's End whilst Renly was in the capital as Master of Laws, and had all but raised Edric Storm, Loreon's ten year old half-brother, the only other acknowledged bastard of Robert Baratheon. Loreon had been visiting Storm's End with his father or Renly ever since he had come to King's Landing, and knew the man well.

"Is my uncle not here?" He asked as they were shown into the castle. "I thought he left King's Landing the day my father died, that's more than enough time?" Penrose smiled slightly as they entered the colossal drum tower.

"He was never here, Storm," He said, showing them up the stairs. "Lord Renly went straight to Highgarden from the capital, he reached it some weeks ago. He did send word of his arrival. I can show you his letters, if you like," Something in his tone suggested that this would be a very good idea.

Once they were sequestered in the lord's solar, Penrose brought out a bundle of parchment, handing one in particular over. All it took was for Loreon to read the words 'I am soon to be crowned king' before his heart sank like a stone. It was all he could do not to curse. _Gods, this is all we fucking need, a rival in the form of our own house_.

He had suspected something was wrong when Renly had not replied to any message sent from Dragonstone. But _this?_ Stannis had told him to win the loyalty of the Stormlands. By that he meant trail around to each castle and landed knight and demand that they support their rightful king, doubtlessly being told no each time like they had told Ser Davos before him. Stannis was not lord of Storm's End, and he was not particularly loved in these lands. But Renly was, to both. _No wonder they told Davos no... They're probably already marching_. There was no point asking for the loyalty of men who wouldn't even be there.

Stannis' strategy was clearly not working. So Loreon would do it his own way. Already he was wondering how long it would take to get to Highgarden.

"Could you lend us horses, Ser?" He looked up sharply at Penrose, who nodded, not looking particularly surprised.

"Bet you want to join him as soon as possible, eh Storm?" He chuckled. "I hear he's forming his own Kingsguard, there'd surely be a space for you if you wanted it,"

"I wouldn't be so bold as to ask," Loreon smiled absently, his mind miles away.

They stayed one night at Storm's End, spending the rest of that day gathering provisions and organising logistics. One of the men would return to Dragonstone to update Stannis on the situation, whilst the rest would accompany Loreon to Highgarden.

That evening he dined with Edric Storm. His younger brother was always glad to see him, and near idolised him, given Robert gave him scant enough attention. Loreon managed to get through the boy's heartfelt outpouring of grief about their father's death without revealing that all the gifts the king supposedly sent him were chosen by Varys, and kindly refused when Edric eagerly asked to go with him to the Reach.

"Tell you what," He said at his brother's clear disappointment. "You can be my squire in a couple of years, how about that?" _If either of us live that long_. But Edric's face lit up once more, and the rest of the meal passed smoothly.

* * *

They left early the next morning, on borrowed horses. Instead of taking the Kingsroad up until it joined the Roseroad, they decided to travel as the crow flies as far as possible, picking up farmer's tracks and smaller roads for a more direct route.

It was soon into their journey, however, that they came across another traveller on the road. Loreon had taken the large figure riding in armour for a knight at first, but after calling out a greeting, realised that it was a woman. At over six feet tall, hugely muscled and with a very ugly face, he did not know her personally, but the lady his uncle Renly had spoken of was unmistakable by reputation alone.

"Are you Lady Brienne, my lady?" He asked with a friendly smile, ignoring the mocking chuckles of his men behind him. The woman - who had initially looked rather shocked at seeing him - eyed him with suspicion, though she couldn't have been more than a year or two older than he was.

"I am, ser," She replied. "How do you know me? Forgive me, you - you look like someone I've met before,"

"I look like a Baratheon," He laughed. "I'm Loreon Storm. My uncle Renly spoke of you," It would have come across cruel to say what he normally would have to a lady, that they had spoken of her beauty. Brienne flushed slightly.

"I'm riding to join his host at Highgarden," She said, turning away and seeming to except him to laugh at her. Loreon did not. Woman though she might be, she was clearly stronger than many men, and he had heard that she could actually use that sword she carried.

"As are we," He said. "You could ride with us, my lady? We have provisions, and travel is always safer in a group," She considered him for a moment. _She's suspicious of every kindness_. Though that wasn't particularly surprising, given that most men to court her likely only did it as she was heiress of Tarth, and made fun of her looks behind her back.

"No, I don't want to impose - "

"We could do with someone else to keep watch," He cut her off. "Dywen here grumbles all day about having to wake up in the middle of the night. You wouldn't be imposing, you'd be useful,"

In the end, Brienne did end up riding with them, though she clearly heard the muttered comments from two of the men in particularly, and the muffled laughter. You'd think that growing up as an ugly woman, she would have grown a thick skin by now, but Loreon saw how the words hurt her.

"I heard of the thrashing you gave Ser Humfrey Wagstaff," He grinned at her as they made camp for the night.

"How did you hear of that?" She flushed again.

"It's true, then?" One of the men looked up from the campfire, amused. The proud old knight was not a very popular man amongst the guardsmen of castles he visited. "I thought he was your betrothed?" The other two smirked at each other.

"He was," Brienne sounded like she wanted to sink into the ground. "He... he said that when we were married, he expected me to wear only women's clothes, and he would chastise me if I didn't obey him. So I said I would accept punishment only from a man who could beat me in a fight," They all laughed at that, except the lady, who shifted uncomfortably.

"What happened then?" Loreon prompted.

"I broke his collarbone and two ribs with a mace," Brienne said, and even she had to smile slightly at that as they burst out laughing again. "And the betrothal was called off,"

"I bet it was," He grinned. "So you can use that sword, then. How about a spar?"

"We have no tourney swords, ser," The woman said. "I wouldn't want to - " She broke off, hearing the snort from one of the men. _I wouldn't want to hurt you_, had been what she was going to say. Loreon didn't hear that often, given he was six and a half feet tall and built rather like the young Robert Baratheon.

"You laugh, Edwyn," He raised an eyebrow. "But have you seen the size of her? She could snap those skinny arms of yours clean off," Brienne clearly wasn't sure whether to take that as a compliment or insult, and turned away to tend the fire.

* * *

It took them over two weeks to reach Highgarden, and that was pushing a fast pace. The castle truly was beautiful, but Loreon was focused more on the enormous host gathering beneath the outer walls. Banners from all over the Reach and Stormlands could be seen fluttering in the breeze, and the city of tents was vast. More importantly, even from this distance, they looked to be packing.

"Just in time," He smiled, though he was already wondering what in hells he could do. Loreon thought of Stannis, and his own strength; four meagre Narrow Sea lords, arguing on the grim, dark Dragonstone. Renly had vast strength in numbers, the near unlimited provisions of the Reach and charisma that Stannis would never have.

For a moment, he considered shedding his allegiance to Stannis. It would certainly be the easy path to take. Renly knew him, liked him, would surely offer him a high up position and, most importantly, looked to be on the winning side. With the Tyrells allegiance, he could control the trade going into King's Landing, food specifically. Renly could effectively put the city under siege from a hundred leagues away.

But then Loreon realised that he didn't particularly want easy.

On the face of it, Renly was the obvious choice. But things that seemed too good to be true usually were. He _knew_ his uncle, knew that whilst Renly might like the idea of being king, the moment war or struggle came, he would lose his nerve. All these lords and knights had flocked to him, but should he falter in any way, they would flock to someone else, the next highest bidder. Renly was loved, and men like Lord Tywin were feared, but each on its own was not enough, a set up for eventual failure.

Loreon hardened his head against getting drawn in to the whole charade. Stannis was the king, there could be no doubt about that.

"Come on," He turned to look at his companions, seeing his own doubts reflected in the eyes of the three men. "Best make ourselves known. I must see my uncle,"

* * *

This chapter was such a headache to write that I actually finished the next one before coming back to it, so sorry for the delay. I'm still not entirely happy - Loreon is quite hard to write simply because I haven't had the hours writing from his POV like Ross or Ren, and we're thrown into the deep end with his story - but I'd love to hear what you all think. Constructive criticism welcome.


	25. His Father's Son

They had scarcely entered Riverrun before the raven came. The letter was addressed to Lord Tully; with old Lord Hoster dying in bed, it was his son Edmure - a prisoner of the Lannisters until the previous day - who opened it, as lords and knights moved around their group. Ross watched as the young man's eyes widened almost immediately, and his face went sheet white.

"What is it?" Robb asked him, frowning.

"I - I'm sorry - " Edmure broke off, turning helplessly to his uncle, and Ross felt a stab of dread at the look on his face. Ser Brynden took the letter out of his nephew's loose grip, scanning it for a moment before his expression turned the grimmest Ross had seen it. He shared a glance with his nephew, then turned to them.

"Great-nephew, Lady Rosennis, best go to my brother's solar," They didn't question him. As they left the hall, Ren melted out of the crowd to accompany them. The Blackfish glanced at her son for a moment, but decided not to say anything. That was wise of him. Ross was tense enough as it was, for surely that letter held nothing but bad news. Possibilities were already racing through her mind, each worse than the one before, but she forced herself to focus as the door to Hoster Tully's solar closed behind them.

"Best sit down for this, my lord," The old knight sighed, pouring a large cup of wine.

"My lord?" She picked up sharply before Robb could speak. There was a pause as they waited for the Blackfish to correct his mistake. He did not, merely held out the letter to her nephew, who warily took it without taking the offered chair. Ross' blood turned to ice.

"Lord Eddard Stark confessed his crimes against his Grace, King Joffrey on the steps of the Great Steps of Baelor," Robb read aloud, for her benefit and Ren's. "His Grace will not let such foul treason against his reign go unpunished," He stopped abruptly, cast the letter down to the table and sat down. The Blackfish wordlessly pushed the cup of wine at him, and he took a large swallow, clenching his jaw and looking awfully like he was fighting tears.

Ross knew by now what the letter said, but part of her refused to believe it until she heard it spoken aloud, despite the awful feeling of dread gripping her stomach, spreading through her whole body.

After a moment, Ren stepped forward, picked up the parchment and read on in a monotone.

"Lord Stark lost his head at the king's order,"

Another piece of her heart broke.

There was more to the letter, but her son left it there for now. _Gods, Ned_.

It wasn't like Father and Brandon, violently killed in front of her. Then, she had screamed and cursed and raged, fighting desperately to save them, doing everything in her power at the time which was, ultimately, useless. But no one could say it was her fault, she'd done all she was able.

This news was delivered by raven. Ned died days ago, hundreds of leagues away, with one fall of a headsman's blade. Ross had been oblivious at the time. Perhaps she had even been smiling. Now she couldn't imagine smiling again.

_I should have gone with him. I should have done more to help him. I should have been there_. Perhaps then she might have been beheaded alongside her brother as her daughter watched. Or perhaps Ned would be alive and well. It was impossible to know, but that didn't make it any less agonising. _What if, what if, what if_...

Her stony expression did not crack, but her mind was another matter. She heard people talking around her, her son, the Tullys, not Robb, but they sounded distant, irrelevant. Ross couldn't look weak in front of them, not even now, they had to think her unbreakable. She must be there for her brother's son, who, to his credit, was doing his best to keep a stoic face even if he didn't trust himself to speak.

"Is Cersei Lannister _mad? _Murdering a Lord Paramount, what was the woman thinking?" Ser Brynden was raging.

"It says by the king's decree," Ren said darkly. "I wouldn't put it past that little monster to go rogue on his mother,"

"What kind of mother can't control her own thirteen year old brat?"

"That thirteen year old brat is the king of the Seven Kingdoms, ser, and besides, you've never met Joffrey,"

"Stark was their _only_ valuable hostage,"

"They still have the girls,"

"We can't trade the _Kingslayer_ for three girls,"

"They can't have known we've captured Ser Jaime, surely, or they wouldn't have dared..."

"We'd be quite within rights to kill him for this,"

At that, Ross tried to pull herself together. "Kill him, and you kill both your nieces, and my daughter," Her voice was hoarse, thick with grief, dull. "I'll set the man loose myself before that happens," She didn't miss the brief look the two Tullys gave each other at that, and cursed her phrasing. She had heard some of the rumours flying around the camp since Jaime Lannister's suspiciously easy capture in the Whispering Wood herself, it only made sense that Edmure and his uncle had too.

"You can't mean to let this go without vengeance," Edmure scoffed. "He was a Stark. The Northern lords wouldn't stand for it," Ross narrowed her eyes.

"When did I say that I was letting the murder of my brother go unpunished?" Her tone was low, harsh, and the young man's eyes widened a fraction, taken aback. She felt a vicious satisfaction. "There will be a council, where we will reveal to everyone several things that have the potential to topple Joffrey and his wretched mother from their lofty perch," And wouldn't she enjoy every minute of that. "But not yet," She glanced at Robb, who had yet to speak a word.

"I will hold a war council this evening," His face was stony now, his voice more so, befitting a true Stark. She saw it in his eyes, the rage that had consumed Brandon in his last moments, the righteous anger in her father's eyes before he pulled on his helm. _Blood. Fury. Vengeance_. "Not a word of it until then, not until the army is settled in the castle," They all nodded.

"And until then?" Ser Brynden asked. "It's not yet noon,"

"We grive," Her nephew said simply.

"Of course," Edmure quickly said. His uncle bowed his head respectfully, and they left. There was a silence, then Ren grabbed the abandoned letter and scanned the rest of it himself.

"Sansa is safe, and Morganna," He said eventually. "They don't mention Arya. They _do_ imply that Joffrey was supposed to offer Lord Stark to take the black. They don't say it outright, but it's in there. This murder is on the king,"

"Like that will get us to turn around and return home," Robb snorted darkly. "Is that it?"

"No," He paused, jaw tightening. "The Stark Valyrian steel sword has been seized... and was used in the proceedings at the sept,"

"They killed him with Ice," Fury flashed across Robb's expression then, but then he seemed to deflate, turning to Ross. "Forgive me, Aunt," She saw the pain in his young eyes. Eyes too old to be fifteen, too old for the boy she remembered not even a year ago being excited over direwolf pups and fighting with the other boys in the yard. "I must go to the godswood," She just nodded, her throat tight. Ren clapped him on the shoulder as he got to his feet, and as he passed Ross, she reached out to catch his arm.

"I know I'm not your mother," She said quietly. "I know you're a lord now. But you don't have to be strong in front of everyone all the time," He smiled rather bleakly at that.

"Thank you, my lady," He said. "But neither do you," Her carefully constructed exterior nearly shattered at Robb's words as the boy left. The door shut.

"Mother," Ren approached her where she was stood frozen. He was grieving too, of course he was, but not like her, not like his cousin. He had loved her brother as an uncle, respected him as a lord, and until recently had only seen him a handful of times since he was ten. "I thought he'd leave the city right after I did, I thought he was safe as long as Robert was alive, I thought - "

"We all thought many things," The full truth of it all was beginning to hit her, staved off temporarily by her efforts in front of the Tullys but triggered by her nephew's words. "It's hardly your fault. I - " Her words caught in her throat. "Ren, I can't - " She couldn't talk now, not like this. Ross didn't want her son to see her break.

"I can help you find your rooms," He didn't wait for her to finish. Thankfully he understood.

"No," She heard herself say, perhaps too harshly, and added, "Thank you. No, I - I can go myself," Ross moved towards the door; her limbs felt somewhat detached from her body, almost like she was drunk, as she walked down the corridor. She heard her heartbeat, heard her boots clacking on the floor, heard the sweep of her dark skirts, the roar in her head, the urge to scream, to weep, to break.

Having stopped a Tully guard for directions, she knew where she was going, and it wasn't to cry in her bedchamber. It was a bad idea, but Ross always made her worst decisions at times like this simply because she ceased to care. What did it matter what she did, when her brother was dead anyway? Nothing would change that, what could she do to make it worse than it was?

She stopped outside the door of the tower cell, facing the four armed guards. _None of them know yet_, she thought. That made it easier to pretend. _Just a short while now_.

"I must speak with the Kingslayer," Her own voice said coldly. One of the first things Robb had ordered done after the Lannister siege of Riverrun was broken the previous day was to make sure his prize hostage was secure in a cell. "There is news from King's Landing," None of that was a lie.

The guards, not willing to risk her famous ire - the Northmen had fast mingled with with the Riverlands forces, enough to share their opinions on their lords and ladies - moved aside at once.

"Two of us will go in with you, milady," One said kindly as another unlocked the door. The unprompted kindness made the urge to cry even worse, somehow, and it was all she could do to keep herself together.

"He's dangerous, that one," Another added. "Wouldn't trust him not to take you hostage to bargain, or kill you out of spite alone," He spat on the ground. Once she might have smiled at that.

"Ser Jaime would not be so foolish," Ross drew her hidden long dagger out of her skirts, and four pairs of eyes widened. "He knows what's at stake. Though perhaps you'd better take this, so he is not tempted," She handed the knife to the guard who had spoken, who blinked down at it, surprised at the fact she had such a blade, or perhaps that Jaime Lannister would know exactly where to look for it. Ross, once more, was beyond caring. "Remain outside, and lock the door after me," The guard looked uneasy.

"If any harm were to come to you, milady, Lord Robb would surely be displeased with the likes of us," That was likely true, but Ross ignored that fact.

"In that unlikely event, he would know I brought it on myself," She said, turning to the young guard who had unlocked the door with a hard look. "He will be much more displeased that you are preventing me from speaking with Ser Jaime about this urgent matter. Stand aside," The young man looked torn and glanced at the captain, who shrugged helplessly.

"On your head be it, milady," He held the door open, and Ross entered the room. It shut behind her, and she heard the key scrape in the lock.

"Lady Stark," Jaime was on his feet in an instant, chair scraping on the stone floor. He'd been sat at the small table, flicking through a book, which showed just how bored he was. She was surprised not to find him pacing a hole in the floor. "Welcome to my fine chambers. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" He was smirking, but simply the sight of him made it worse.

"Could you hear - " Ross' voice cracked before she'd even gotten a sentence out, and his smirk dropped. "Could you hear what was being said outside?"

"I heard voices," He said. "Not words, I couldn't even tell it was you. Why? What don't you want my new friends outside to overhear?"

"I - " To her horror, her intended cold response to his sarcasm suddenly turned into a sob, and she immediately clapped one hand to her mouth to stifle it. But her eyes were already filling with the tears she'd been holding back since she heard her that brother was dead. She couldn't look at him, not when she felt as raw as this. Why had she come here? Why not to her chambers, where she would not be disturbed? Why not the godswood?

"Gods, Ross," Jaime's voice was sharp now, and he moved closer, a warm hand on her shoulder that only made more tears rush forward. "You never cry. Not in front of me, anyway. Not for Aerys, not for your father, nor your brother. Is it Ren? Or one of the other three?"

"Ned," She managed to get out, still clutching her hand furiously to her mouth in a pitiful attempt to hold her grief back, hot tears running down her cheeks and wrist as she bowed her head, refusing to look at him.

When he pulled her tightly against his chest, she resisted slightly for a moment, but then gave up, letting his arms hold her as she wept silently onto his shoulder, shaking with sobs. His display of... whatever this was - not sympathy, he hated her brother - only made her cry more. Ross hadn't seen much of this side of him much since she was seventeen.

"How did it happen?" He asked after some uncertain length of time. It can't have been too long, or the guards would have come looking for her. _And wouldn't this be a fine sight for them... Lady Stark crying in the Kingslayer's arms_. Ross looked up at him then, right into his eyes, and it all came out.

"He was made to confess his false treason before the city," Her voice was thick with tears and fury. "Your sister presumably made a show of it, an afternoon's entertainment for the people. He was going to take the black, but your _vile_ son took his head off anyway," Jaime's eyes darkened but she continued, with somewhat less venom, leaning her head against his shoulder again. "Ilyn Payne killed him with Ice, his own blade, my father's sword, his father's before him, the _Stark_ sword. Is that fitting, or cruel irony?"

"Valyrian steel," He said quietly into her hair. "It would've been quick. Payne's a poor conversationalist, but he's good at what he does. One stroke, done, as painless as it could be," His practical words were some small comfort.

Ross felt the mad urge to chuckle; she knew she was hardly the easiest person to comfort, particularly when the only face she ever cried in front of was her own reflection. Honestly, that was likely the best thing he could've said, as meaningless platitudes never failed to irritate her. It had been like that with Aerys. Instead of telling her everything would be fine, he had brought her moon tea, cursed the world with her and promised to kill a king.

There was a silence, during which she just stood there in his arms. Ross wasn't used to crying, to showing her grief so openly, even if it was only Jaime, and her tears dried out soon enough. She hardly felt any better.

"They thought you'd try to kill me if I went in alone," She said, sniffing. "To escape, or just out of spite," She felt him smile, and didn't begrudge him. Jaime had no reason to mourn her brother, given the deep mutual dislike between them, fifteen years old. He hadn't made any jokes about Dead Ned yet, though, which she supposed was something.

"I still might," His hands moved lower, meticulously feeling her skirts, and Ross looked up at him incredulously - _gods, pick your moments _\- only for him to continue. "Come on, Stark, even I wouldn't try to fuck a woman weeping for her dead brother. I'm looking for your dagger. Which isn't on you, I see. Brave,"

"Clever," She corrected, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "Can you honestly say that you wouldn't have have stolen it the moment you got the chance?"

"No," Jaime said unashamedly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Though I wouldn't have killed you with it," She raised an eyebrow, and he went on. "You'd be easy enough to knock out, though without you conscious to get that lot to open the door, I'd have to wait until they came looking. That's easier than persuading you to help me, however, so I'd cut my losses, take you out and wait. There's four of them out there, the dagger would do for one, I'd steal his sword and that would be that,"

"How chivalrous," Ross sat beside him rather than taking the single wooden chair tiredly. "You've clearly thought this through," _Right up until you have to fight your way through the entirety of Riverrun's guard, escape the walls and make it to your father without being recaptured or killed_.

"What else is there to do in this prison, my lady, but plot escape?"

"Educate yourself," She said darkly. "There's books here. Perhaps they could teach you some caution, a lack of which is the reason you're here in the first place," Jaime laughed at that.

"I'd been wondering where that sharp tongue had gone," He said. "The tears were unnerving, I'll admit. There were times in the Red Keep you looked like a wild animal had savaged you, but your eyes were always dry, as they were after Aerys tenderly murdered your father and brother in front of you," His careless tone - which Ross had learned to let wash over her - softened ever so slightly. "Why was this different?" She thought on that for a moment.

"I said before. After the rebellion, everything was meant to be all right again," She paused. "They don't tell you just keep fighting. Ned was meant to be a lord until his teeth fell out and all his hair turned white. He was meant to see his children married with children of their own. He was my brother, I - " She broke off again, but there were no more tears left. "Back then, the small stubbornness of not letting Aerys make me cry was all I had. Now it's different. A different war, a different murderer," Ross looked up at him again. "Your son is mad and cruel, but you know that already,"

"He's not my son," Jaime said. She opened her mouth in anger, but he cut her off. "He is a squirt of seed in Cersei's cunt," _Gods_. Ross closed her mouth, lips settling in a hard line as she turned to stare at him. "I never held him. She never let me near him, nor Myrcella, nor Tommen for a while,"

"You have such a way with words, ser," Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. "I'd laugh at that, but you never held Morganna, either," He gave a sharp smile, which cut like a knife.

"No I did not, and wasn't _that_ such a nice surprise waiting for me at Winterfell," He said. "This is the first time you've said it out loud, had you forgotten? From the moment I saw her in that courtyard until just now, I was only guessing. Not that it isn't obvious to anyone who's looking. It truly is a miracle you managed to pass the girl off as Roose Bolton's for twelve years,"

"Like you said," She said coldly. "It's only obvious if you're looking. All it took was a passing comment that she looks like my beautiful sister, and a convincing oh-gods-the-baby's-coming-a-month-early face when the labour started. Lucky she was small,"

He clearly had a scathing reply to that, but caught himself, perhaps remembering that her brother had just died, or perhaps just not wanting to drive away the only person stopping him from being bored enough to read. Either way, Ross realised that arguing with him was hardly how she should be conducting herself now.

"Sorry," The apology wasn't completely heartfelt, but was softer than her previous words. It wasn't specific, either. _Sorry for not telling you about your daughter. Sorry for letting you rot in this cell. Sorry our families are at war_.

There was a pause.

"I'd say the same, but there is such a thing as too much novelty, and you've already cried in my arms today," Ross elbowed hard him in the ribs, shaking her head.

"You're insufferable," She leant her head on his shoulder anyway, weary, and his arm moved to settle around her waist. "Morganna's a lot like you, you know. More so than Ren," He looked questioning, and she elaborated. "An absolute fucking nightmare,"

"Sorry," Ross gave him a flat look, and the very faintest of amused smiles.

"She thinks she's funny too," Her smile fast faded. "I hate to think of her a prisoner in that court. I likely only survived Aerys by being quiet and not openly defiant,"

"And by fucking a Kingsguard on the side,"

"That too, though I'd like to think twelve is a bit young," She pulled a face. "And that she'd have higher standards than the likes of Meryn Trant," He smirked at that. "Morganna's not like me, besides. She would laugh in the face of anyone waving a sword at her, and has an uncanny knack for getting under people's skin when she wishes,"

"Cersei will realise, you know," Jaime grimaced. "The girl looks enough like me, and I don't have to remind you of how well she knows my face, not least because it's her own face too. And that of her daughter. It doesn't help that I scarcely saw her and Myrcella apart in King's Landing. If she makes a scene, draws any attention to herself at all, Cersei will notice,"

"And what will she do?" Ross asked. "Proof that her precious twin's world doesn't revolve around her, surely it won't be pretty,"

"She can't kill her," He said simply. "They'll hear that you've got me in a day or so,"

"That's counting on Morganna being able to avoid drawing attention to herself for near two months," Ross grimaced. "I had words with her before she left Winterfell. I hope they scared her enough. She wasn't meant to go south at all, but weaselled her way into getting a personal invitation from the queen, which I couldn't have refused without my husband growing suspicious," She shot Jaime a dark look as he opened his mouth, eyebrows raised. "Don't,"

"I was going to say she sounds more like Cersei than me,"

"And you really thought that's _any_ better?" Ross felt him smile, and there was a short silence. "I will see your sister dead for this, you know," She felt his fingers tighten on her waist. Her head still rested on his shoulder. But Jaime said nothing. She wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

* * *

Having left the tower cell, Ross went to her nephew.

Unlike the dark, ancient, brooding godswood of Winterfell, the Riverrun godswood was a bright and airy garden with elms, redwoods, wildflowers, nesting birds and trickling streams. At its centre was a slender weirwood, with a face more sad than fierce. Robb knelt before it, his longsword stuck in the earth in front of him, hands clasped around the hilt. _He might look more like his mother, but he's Ned's son in truth_. Others knelt around him. Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont, Galbart Glover and more, even the riverlord Tytos Blackwood. Her own son was there, too. All those who kept the old gods.

Ross came and knelt wordlessly amongst them, beside Ren, feeling the damp earth through her skirts. A few glanced up at her approach, but none spoke. She bowed her head, hands clasped in her lap, and prayed.

After who knew how long, Robb got to his feet, looking at her, so she rose too.

"Aunt," He said. "We must call a council. There are many things to be decided. We've had word from the south. Renly Baratheon has claimed his brother's crown," Ross stared at him for a moment.

"Is he mad?" She asked incredulously. "What about Joffrey? Tommen and Myrcella? _Stannis?"_

Neither she nor Ren had discussed the contents of Loreon's letter with anyone, not even Robb, worried that the boy would feel honour bound to support the rightful king even after he got his father and sisters back, prolonging the war needlessly. But they were beyond that point now. Ross met her son's eyes with a pointed look, and he nodded, once. They'd tell everyone else that night, but Robb had to know now.

"Who knows what he was thinking, my lady," Galbart Glover was saying, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ren muttering to his cousin, taking him aside. She made her excuses and followed.

* * *

The war council was held in the Great Hall, at four long trestle tables arranged in a broken square. Edmure sat in the high seat of the Tullys, with the Blackfish at his side, and his father's bannermen arrayed to right and left and along the side tables.

The northern lords sat opposite, with Ross and Robb facing Edmure. The Greatjon sat to Robb's left, then Ren, then Theon Greyjoy; Galbart Glover and Lady Mormont were to the right of Ross. Rickard Karstark looked gaunt, having left his son Eddard dead in the Whispering Wood, Torrhen maimed, and there was no word of Harrion, who had led the Karstark forces at the Green Fork.

Ross had expected it to be a series of simple matters, building up to the reveal of what she and Ren had discussed in advance with Robb, but she had underestimated the ability of the lords to argue late into the night. But amidst the shouting, cursing, reasoning, cajoling, threatening, walk-outs and and slamming of tankards on the table, the crucial issues were discussed.

Her husband had re-formed the battered remnants of the other half of their army after the Green Fork. Tallhart and Frey still held the Twins. Lord Tywin had crossed the river, and was making for Harrenhal. There were two proclaimed kings in the realm, shortly to be three when Stannis finally made his move.

Then Robb called for silence. It was the first time he had spoken. Like his father, he knew how to listen.

"A serious matter has been recently brought to my attention," He said. "Most of you have heard of Loreon Storm, bastard son of Robert Baratheon by Giana Lannister," There were several chuckles at Cersei's expense here. "My cousin Renan is his trusted friend, and some days ago received a letter from Storm, who fled King's Landing for Dragonstone to avoid being stabbed in his sleep by his aunt's catspaw. He found Stannis in possession of a letter, from my father," Robb's jaw tensed, and no one was laughing now. "It tells us what we already knew. Lord Stark committed no treason, though he did move against Joffrey," He took a deep breath. "Joffrey is not the true king, but a bastard, born of incest between the queen and the Kingslayer,"

Uproar. As predicted. Roars of outrage and disgust, calls for the Kingslayer's head, cursing, shouting and more.

"My lords!" Robb called over the noise, and slowly they quieted so individual voices were distinguishable at least.

"That makes Stannis the king, what a helpful coincidence for him," Marq Piper snorted.

"Are you suggesting my father would knowingly try to steal the throne from King Robert's trueborn son to give to his brother?" Robb asked coldly. "I assure you, this information is correct. Stannis plans to send out an official letter when he has crowned himself,"

"So why are we hearing this from his bastard nephew?" It was a fair point.

"Lord Stannis, as I'm sure anyone who has met him will agree, is stubborn and immovable," Ross spoke, to several snorts of agreement. "If Loreon Storm saw the necessity of fast communication with potential allies, and it did not fit with Stannis' initial plans, there would be no swaying him into announcing the news more quickly. But as you will agree, this letter has changed our position greatly," It was best to make out that the letter was the first she was hearing of Joffrey's parentage, or there would doubtless be a lot of questions as to why Ren and Ross hadn't revealed it sooner. All she needed was to be labelled a Lannister sympathiser.

And then Ren, who had been silent the entire time, spoke.

"I was in King's Landing with Lord Stark for several moons," Perhaps he shouldn't have opened his mouth, it was hardly proper for the bastard cousin of Lord Stark interrupt his war councils. Several lords started to grumble, but Robb raised a hand to let him speak. "I can confirm that he was investigating the death of Jon Arryn, which likely is linked to this matter. My uncle sent me to a smithy in the city, which had an apprentice boy who was clearly one of Robert's bastards. His hair was dark, his eyes were blue, just like the king's,"

"Storm himself is living proof," Ross agreed. "A Lannister woman, the queen's own sister, gives birth to a dark haired son. Every one of the king's many bastards is black of hair, so why do his trueborn children look like Lannisters, with no trace of their father to be seen?" This convinced many of those who didn't take his word from the start.

The talk built up again, many still proclaiming their disgust at the incest, swearing to remove the abomination from the throne, etcetera. Ross sat through it all without complaint. She would sit through hours of inefficient bickering if it insured that once and for all the option of bending the knee to support Joffrey's claim, or that of his brother Tommen, was ruled out.

The discussion turned, of course, to what their long-term options were. It was a choice between two, either support Stannis or support Renly. Seemingly simple, or so Ross had thought, but the decision was linked into their short-term battle strategies, and even _that_ matter could not be agreed upon.

Many of the lords wanted to march on Harrenhal at once, to meet Lord Tywin and end Lannister power for all time. The boldly moronic Marq Piper urged a strike west at Casterly Rock. Jason Mallister counselled patience, given Riverrun sat athwart the Lannister supply lines; they should bide their time, denying Lord Tywin fresh levies and provisions while they strengthened defences and rested weary troops. Tytos Blackwood would have none of it, suggesting all their forces converge on Harrenhal together. What Blackwood urged, Bracken opposed, rising to insist they ought pledge fealty to King Renly, and move south to join their army to his.

"Renly is not the king," Robb said, having been largely silent in the discussion. "He's Robert's younger brother. Bran can't be Lord of Winterfell before me, and Renly can't be king before Lord Stannis,"

"Lord Stannis has the better claim," Maege Mormont agreed.

"Renly is crowned, and powerful," Marq Piper said. "Highgarden and Storm's End support his claim, and the Dornishmen will not be laggardly. If Winterfell and Riverrun add their strength to his, he will have five of the seven great houses behind him. Six, if the Arryns bestir themselves! Six against the Rock! My lords, within the year, we will have all their heads on pikes, the queen and the boy king, Lord Tywin, the Imp, the Kingslayer, Ser Kevan, all of them! That is what we shall win if we join with King Renly. What does Lord Stannis have against that, that we should cast it all aside?"

"The right," Robb stubbornly insisted, sounding eerily like Ned.

"So you mean us to declare for Stannis?" Edmure asked.

"Yes," His answer sounded final.

"That could draw out the war considerably," Blackwood said. "Even if the Vale and Dorne stay neutral, four kingdoms versus one is a different beast entirely to two versus two versus one,"

"We cannot afford to be so divided," Mallister agreed.

"My lord father would urge caution," Ser Stevron smiled his weaselly Frey smile. "Wait, let these two Baratheon kings play their game of thrones. When they are done fighting, we can bend our knees to the victor, or oppose him, as we choose. With Renly arming, likely Lord Tywin would welcome a truce... and the safe return of his son. Noble lords, allow me to go to him at Harrenhal and arrange good terms and ransoms..."

A roar of outrage drowned out his voice.

"Craven!" The Greatjon thundered.

"Begging for a truce will make us seem weak," Declared Lady Mormont.

"Ransoms be damned, we must not give up the Kingslayer," Rickard Karstark shouted.

"You'd truly allow that incestuous bastard Joffrey to rule over us all?" Ross' cold voice cut through them all, and dozens of pairs of eyes turned her way. "Even in times of peace, that vile boy would run the kingdoms to ruin. He and Cersei Lannister murdered my brother. They hold my daughter and nieces hostage. Lord Tywin attacked the Riverlands, his men murdering, raping and pillaging as they please. None of these insults can go without retribution," Murmurs of agreement spread around the tables.

"My lady, it was my lord father they murdered," Robb said to her grimly. He unsheathed his longsword and laid it on the table before him, the bright steel on the rough wood. "I assure you, this is the only peace I have for Lannisters,"

The Greatjon bellowed his approval, and other men added their voices, shouting and drawing swords and pounding their fists on the table. Ross smiled a small smile.

"I shall never call a Lannister my king," Marq Piper declared.

"Nor I!" The little Darry boy yelled. "I never will!"

"But who do we turn to?" The inevitable question came again. "Stannis or Renly?" Again the shouting began. Ross thought that Robb had made his opinion perfectly clear, but evidently there were those that thought to swing things the other way.

She looked at her nephew, watched him as he listened to the lords debate, frowning, troubled, yet wedded to his war. He had pledged himself to marry a daughter of Walder Frey, but she saw his true bride plain before her now; the sword he had laid on the table. Some part of her mourned for the laughing, cheery boy he had been. But the rest was screaming for blood with the rest of them.

Suddenly the Greatjon lurched to his feet.

"MY LORDS!" His voice boomed off the rafters. "Here is what I say to these two kings!" He spat. "Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne? What do they know of the Wall or the wolfswood or the barrows of the First Men? Even their gods are wrong." He reached over his shoulder and drew his immense greatsword. "Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we married, and the dragons are all dead!" He pointed at Robb with the blade. Ross sat up straight, narrowing her eyes . "There sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to, m'lords," He thundered. "The King in the N - " He went as though to kneel, but Ross got there first.

"No," She cut him off sharply when she realised what he was about to do. "_No_. That route is a death sentence for us all," Every eye in the room was on her, and very few were friendly, but Ross didn't care, she had to end this madness before the idea took root. "Our demands at present are reasonable. The withdrawal of invading Lannister forces from the Riverlands. The return of all Stark hostages, three harmless young girls. Vengeance for the unjust murder of our liege lord, which we will achieve by dethroning the little monster on the Iron Throne and putting the rightful king in his place. But the moment we declare independence, we are forfeit. Who will ally with us? Not Stannis. Perhaps Renly, though he's surely the Tyrell's puppet, and we won't see hide nor hair of any southron provisions or support when the snows blow in from the north,"

"So what you are saying, my lady," Rickard Karstark said skeptically. "Is that you wish for us to declare for Stannis? Or even Renly, it makes no matter, you would rather fight for a stranger than your own nephew?"

"I wish to see my nephew alive, and my family ruling the North for another eight thousand years," She replied shortly. There was a silence.

"You are a woman, my lady," Bracken said. "Women do not understand these things, their hearts are tender, meant for motherhood, not war and vengeance," The dead silence of the Northmen at his words made all the others shift somewhat uneasily, as Ross stared down Lord Jonos with hard eyes.

"Lord Bracken, let me tell you, I have never hated anyone more than I hated Aerys Targaryen. He burned my father alive in his own armour and strangled my brother, made me watch then laughed in my face. In return, when I watched him scream and soil himself as the Kingslayer advanced, when I watched him choke and splutter for a full minute after his throat was slit, his blood flowing out onto the floor, I smiled. I smiled more then than I did after birthing any of my children,"

Ross' eyes had not left Bracken's the entire time she spoke, and she never raised her voice, but now she looked at each of the lords in turn. "I am a woman, and a mother, yes. And Joffrey killed my brother. I wish to see him bleed as Aerys did, boy or not. _Woman or not_. I will wield the blade myself if that is what it takes. I may lack a cock, but I have a hand to hold a dagger, same as you," She curled her lip slightly, hearing the Greatjon snort in amusement, seeing Maege Mormont's small smile. "And as I see it, the best way to achieve that vengeance is by allying with a man with a claim to the throne. Stannis or Renly, I care not who sits that ugly iron chair, so long as someone tears the Lannister king off of it,"

There was a heavy silence as she finished speaking. Most of the Riverlords looked to be varying levels of shocked at her words, some even seemed slightly disturbed. The Northmen were less surprised.

"For now," Robb spoke, and they all listened. "Stannis is not yet crowned, though he _is_ king by right. We will not declare for Renly as yet,"

"An alliance of sorts could be formed, though, surely," Ren said. "It would be foolish to throw our lot in with one and alienate the other at such an early stage, particularly when Renly has the strength of the Reach behind him,"

"Perhaps we can compromise," Robb agreed. "Ally with him in some other way. But for now, we fight the Lannisters, our immediate foe," That brought a resounding roar of approval from most everyone.

_That's why he's a good leader_, Ross thought with a twinge of bleak amusement. Talking sense was all well and good, but pandering to the masses was a necessary skill also, and that was something neither she nor her son would ever be particularly good at.

She knew Robb's mind was made up, though. He was too much his father's son to declare for anyone but the rightful king. She sighed, tuning out the lords and trying to think up strategies to deal with Stannis Baratheon.

* * *

_Once again, small parts of this chapter (some scenes from the war council) are from A Game of Thrones._

_Finally, a significant change! I appreciate that so far this story has largely followed canon with only minor changes from canon (Elbert Arryn lives, Giana and Loreon, a stronger Tommen, no Catelyn with Robb etc), but I needed to build up to this point and establish the characters before things really start to deviate. Thank you for your patience! And all the reads, votes/kudos and kind comments, I'm grateful for every one, and love hearing any kind of constructive criticism, as well as your hopes for the future of this story. _

_The next update may take slightly longer to upload, as this is the end of the first part of the story I mapped out, but I'll do my best to get it up as soon as possible. _


	26. Experience And Innocence

"Theon Greyjoy," Ross' sharp voice rang out across the yard. Most eyes turned her way, including those of the dark-haired, ever-amused youth. "A word," Theon's smile was as infuriating as ever as he made a show muttering something to his pretty female companion as he swaggered over to her. It was evening, after dinner, and the man had likely had more than a little to drink.

"Lady Bolton," He said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" When she first met him, Greyjoy had been a boy of ten, resentful of being taken from his home, but full of bravado even then. Over the course of her visits to Winterfell several times a year, she had seen him grow into a handsome young man, skilled with a bow, who was one of her nephew's closest friends. He had fought at Robb's side during every battle, but that didn't mean Ross trusted him.

"Walk with me," She said shortly, and, though he looked briefly irritated at having to leave his little serving wench, Theon kept that amused smile on his face and fell in step beside her, as they moved towards the stairs leading up to the battlements. "I trust Robb has told you of where he means to send you?" She had been meaning to have this conversation for a while, and as she was to leave Riverrun for the Reach the next morning, now was as good a time as any.

"He has," Theon nodded as they began to climb, the fast-fading light making their shadows long. "To treat with my father on Pyke. What of it, my lady? You don't look so pleased by the prospect,"

"Not pleased would be an understatement,"

"Why?" His lips curled. "Is it the choice of envoy that displeases you?"

"Sending any envoy would displease me," Ross said. "Perhaps foolishly, when my nephew brought up the matter of treating with your father, I told him that Balon Greyjoy would send back the head of any man he sent," She glanced at the man beside her. "To which he suggested sending you instead,"

"You think I'd betray Robb the moment I return to the Iron Islands, is that it?" His eyes narrowed as they neared the top of the stairs, the wind suddenly hitting them from between the battlements.

"Perhaps," She eyed him carefully, turning her head so her long, loose hair was blown behind her as they walked along the walls, rather than whipping around her face. "I truly couldn't say, though I know what I'd do if it came to a choice between my family and my friend," That was why Jaime was still locked in a cell. "Honestly, it matters little. One more man on Greyjoy's side would hardly make a difference in the end, aside from Robb's hurt feelings," _It might even make him listen to me more often_. "No, what concerns me is that your father would never ally with the son of one of the men that drove him to his knees," _And my nephew does not seem to see that_.

"What is your point?" He had the nerve to look bored.

"You're going to have to make a choice," Ross said coldly. "You will arrive on Pyke and your father will throw Robb's terms in your face. Perhaps he will even attack the North out of spite. Like as not, he's been planning such a move ever since he heard we were marching south anyway,"

"You can't know that," Theon raised an eyebrow, still not taking her seriously. "You've never met my father, you've never been to the Iron Islands, and you've never fought a war. How can you be so certain, my lady?"

"I know hate," Was her reply. "I know what it's like to be humiliated, broken, forced to kneel, knowing that no matter what you do, any move you make, you'll be crushed as easily as stepping on a beetle. Your father has been simmering in rage and resentment for ten years. You don't let go of hate like that, least of all take favours handed carelessly out,"

"It's no small favour that Robb is offering," He said. "He's giving my father a crown," Ross smiled bitterly.

"Giving," She said pointedly. "I don't pretend to be familiar with the ways of the Ironborn - nor should you, given you haven't seen Pyke in ten years - but I would not take kindly to anything given to me by the family that killed two of my sons, no matter how great a gift it may be. It's a matter of pride, and I can safely say that the man who crowned himself King of the Iron Islands and thought he could beat the combined might of the Seven Kingdoms is more prideful than I. So yes, I do know that you will have to choose between him and Robb," There was a silence. The smile had finally dropped from Theon's face. He stopped walking, and so did she.

"I assume you couldn't change Robb's mind on this matter," She had told her nephew everything she had just told Theon, and he had still preferred to listen to the counsel of his lords, more experienced in war but less experienced in judging men. "And you said it yourself, you don't care that he sends me, even if I betrayed him," He looked offended at the notion. "So why bother telling me this?"

"That's not what I said," She spoke sharply. "I said it matters little to the war as a whole if you betray us. Not that I don't care," He opened his mouth to speak, but she wasn't finished. "What I wanted to tell you, Greyjoy, is that if you do side with your father against us - and it _will_ come to making that choice, like it or not - I will not rest until you have died the traitor's death you deserve," His eyes widened a fraction in surprise, but then that amused smile was back.

"Forgive me, Lady Bolton, but what could you do?" Ross narrowed her eyes. _Push you over these walls, for one. One short, sharp shove your laughing eyes never saw coming and it's off to your Drowned God you go_.

"This is not a game," She snapped instead. "This is war. Robb might have won a few battles, but his luck could change in the blink of an eye. This time next year, he could be safely in Winterfell, or he could be rotting in a shallow grave in the Riverlands. The same goes for you, so make your choices wisely. I would not hesitate to slit your throat myself if I thought you'd betrayed my family, and would feel no guilt at sending a catspaw to do the job as you slept, either. My brother was an honourable man, but do not believe that I am above such acts myself. And if that isn't enough for you, remember the man I married. There are places in the Dreadfort that even I don't go, but I'm sure Lord Bolton would not object if I handed you over,"

She was exaggerating slightly with that; in truth, she did not know anything that solid about what went on in the Dreadfort when she was away, but suspicion was enough to make it convincing. And she could easily believe her husband capable of such a thing.

"Have you gone mad?" Greyjoy actually laughed, but she saw the look in his eyes, and that was enough to feel a stab of satisfaction. He had heard her, and her words had rattled him despite his outward carelessness. "I would not betray Robb. He is as good as a brother to me,"

"I'm sure you believe that," She said. "But like I said. Things change. Go on, run back to your little serving wench if you're going to smirk like that at me, but at least remember my words. Betray us, and you're a dead man, one way or another," With one last sneering glare, he turned and hurried away, gait far from his typical casual swagger. Ross watched him leave, eyes narrowed, as he passed a figure who had just come up the stairs. The two exchanged several words, before she recognised her son in the dim light. Ren moved to join her.

"What did you say to him?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

"That I'd kill him if he supports his father over us," She turned to look over the walls at the river, and the darkening woods beyond it, feeling the wind on her face, catching her hair. It was rather cold even for the Riverlands, that wind reminding her more of a Northern chill now the sun was almost gone. She sensed her son move to stand beside her. Ren had grown again, even since they left Winterfell, and if Jaime were not locked in a tower cell, they would likely have been within a fraction of the same height.

"That's practically signing his death warrant, then," He said, amused. Ross smiled faintly.

"The way he laughed in my face just then doesn't incline me to be any kinder,"

"I don't blame you," Ren shrugged, then seemed to hesitate, which caught her attention.

"What?" She narrowed her eyes again, turning to him.

"I had an interesting conversation with Ser Brynden earlier," Her son grimaced. "One of his men reported that you visited Jaime's cell the first day we arrived. Tully wanted to know why. The guard said it was to deliver news from King's Landing - which he believed, so there's no concerns there - but you must admit, it is rather odd you felt the need to tell the Kingslayer of your brother's death yourself,"

"And what did you say to Ser Brynden?" Her lip curled.

"That you needed someone to take your anger out on," Amusement glinted in his eyes. "And what better substitute for Cersei Lannister than her own twin brother?"

"And he _believed_ that?"

"It seemed to satisfy his curiosity for now," Ren was still smirking. "It likely helped that Jaime's still covered in fading bruises from the battle. Any one of them could have been made by an angry woman," She had to smile, shaking her head.

"I'm glad the Blackfish has such a high opinion of me. Though why does he think I made it out of there without bruises of my own?_ The Kingslayer_ is hardly going to take a beating from a woman lying down,"

"He's more than capable of holding you off. And if he harmed you, he'd get worse in return, I suppose," He shrugged. "Tully didn't ask, so I didn't elaborate," Ross was silent, staring down at her own pale hands resting on the crenellations.

"Many thanks for lying, but you should never have had to find out," She said after a while. "To you, Jaime Lannister should merely be the knight you squired for, not your mother's dirty little secret,"

"I'd rather know," Ren said. "If only for things to make sense. The only thing I regret learning is that I have more than one half-brother, given who it is, but that's his fault, not yours," He paused. "After the Rebellion, before you were married... when they were still discussing whether Jaime should remain in the Kingsguard - " He broke off, awkward for the first time she'd seen in years.

"I wonder that myself, sometimes," Ross admitted quietly. "Another what if..." She gave a short laugh. "We'd likely have ended up hating each other. At the time, I just wanted to go home, and he, well. He wanted his sister," There was humourless mirth in her eyes. "We were good friends. But back then there was nothing and no one he would put before Cersei. He had her high on a pedestal, like Robert did with Lyanna," There was a pause.

"Rosennis Lannister," Her son pronounced carefully, smirking slightly again. "It doesn't roll off the tongue, I'll admit,"

"Renan Lannister," She pulled a face. "That sounds even worse," She wondered what it was like for him to consider possibilities like that. If Renan Snow had been born into the most powerful house in the realm, learning at Tywin Lannister's knee, a legitimate son and heir rather than a lady's bastard, he would be unstoppable. _Or perhaps he would have turned out more like Cersei. He's only how he is because he wasn't handed anything on a silver platter_.

"That's because you gave me a Northern name, of course it doesn't fit,"

"I'm sorry, should I have called you Tywin and stirred up even more trouble?" Ross raised an eyebrow, and he laughed. She sighed. "You'll never be a Lannister, and neither will I. Nor do I want to be. It's for the best. Remember we're at war,"

"I never forgot," Left unsaid was the fact that if, when Tywin Lannister had taken King's Landing, Ross had run up to him and insisted she marry his son, showed him her child, and convinced Robert to let Jaime leave the Kingsguard, they likely wouldn't be at war at all. Cersei would have had the king's children. Ned would still be alive. Her family would be safe._ What if_.

But the same could be said for any number of decisions people, not just her, had made. Catelyn kidnapping Tyrion, whoever killed Jon Arryn, Ned for dragging up the truth, Joffrey for killing Ned, Cersei for believing that nothing would go wrong when she cuckolded the king, Jaime for believing for a single moment that fucking his bitch of a sister was a good idea. _It is not all on me, it's not_.

"I'm leaving tomorrow, as you know," She found herself saying, her voice harder now. "When you ride to war, don't get yourself killed. However clever you are, I've seen your reckless side. I'm hardly one to lecture you on making sensible decisions, but learn a lesson from the Whispering Wood and gods sake, use your head. I know you don't want to be told how to fight by your mother, but it's better to run and live to fight than die a hero,"

"You sound like a sellsword," Ren said dryly, but he nodded all the same. "I'm not here to be a hero. That's Robb, the Young Wolf. My job is to make sure no one stabs him in the back,"

"I'm glad to hear it," Ross said. "Make him see reason as well. It's a lot to put on you, but you have Robb's trust more than anyone else here. It's easy to get caught up in what the lords want, but when anyone suggests anything, think about what could go wrong. Only advise Robb to go forward if it's worth it," She added, "And keep that wolf around you," Crow was as tall as Grey Wind (himself the size of a pony by now), but leaner and rangy, which somehow gave him a more savage look, along with his dark coat. Having seen both beasts in battle, tearing off human limbs and ripping out throats, Ross was regretting not bringing the other wolves - Summer, Shaggydog, Nymeria and Lady - south with them too, if only to further make their enemies piss themselves in fright.

"I'll try," Ren nodded. "Good luck with Renly and Stannis. Hopefully by the time you get there, one of them will have got rid of the other, which makes your job easier,"

"That's very optimistic," She smiled slightly. "Perhaps Lord Tywin will have fallen on his sword by the time you reach him, too,"

"I'll call him grandfather and he just might,"

* * *

The sounds of a melee could be heard as Ross and her party - twenty Winterfell men who she had known for years, four lords and Dacey Mormont, who she had requested from Robb's own battle guard to attend her in places men could not go - were escorted through Renly's camp. The place was vast, fearsome and predictably ostentatious, but it was the cheering that caught Ross' attention, along with the clash of steel.

"A tourney?" Hal Mollen liked to state the obvious.

"I thought they were marching to war, not playing at it?" Dacey chuckled.

Their escort, a knight named Ser Colen, led them towards the source of the noise, to where the tourney was taking place below the battlements of the small castle. Quite quickly, the crowd of people made passing through the field impossible.

"Lady Bolton," The knight said. "It your men would be so good as to wait here, I'll present you to the king,"

"Very well," Ross glanced at her men briefly. They had been on the road together for weeks now, and that was all it took for Lady Mormont to fall in behind her; she strongly doubted Renly would harm her, but it always paid to have a loyal guard.

Ser Colen led the way through the crowd on foot, leading his horse, whilst Ross and Dacey rode behind him. She could not help but cast an eye to the melee. A big knight in blue armour seemed to be amongst the strongest, wielding a morningstar and bearing the arms of Tarth, along with an even bigger man in grey, but the fighters were not Ross' focus. She recognised few of the lords and ladies in attendance, but gathered from their sigils that the rumours were true; near every house in the Reach and Stormlands had pledged themselves to Renly.

The self-proclaimed king himself was sat watching the tourney. Renly looked as she remembered him looking, like a young, slightly less broad Robert Baratheon. He wore a crown of gold roses, with a jade stag. _Baratheon sigil, but Tyrell colours, could he make it any more obvious?_

His queen sat beside him. Margaery Tyrell was a beautiful girl around Robb's age, with a sweet smile, doe-brown eyes and curly brown hair. She looked more like her brother Loras than Jaime looked like Cersei. The chance to see his darling daughter crowned queen was likely the reason Mace Tyrell had backed Renly in the first place. It was a shame Stannis hadn't given his sour-faced Florent wife a sharp shove off a balcony when no one was looking and gotten there first._That option is still quite possible_.

But Ross was not here to pledge Robb's support to Renly Baratheon. Her nephew had been very clear on that, despite some grumbling from some of the lords. Stannis had the better claim, it was true, but it would have been foolish to ignore the man who had quickly raised the largest army in the Seven Kingdoms.

Perhaps wisely, Robb had not trusted the subtly of most of the northern lords to do the job properly, and not trusted the Riverlords full stop. Besides, it would have been an insult not to send an envoy from a great house; Robb had to lead his armies, the Blackfish was vital to organising the raiding parties, Hoster Tully was dying in his bed and that left herself and Edmure as the only options. Upon realising this, all eyes had turned to her at once, and she had smiled dryly before volunteering.

There was a roar from the crowd, and Ross looked over to see that Loras Tyrell had fallen to the big blue knight, leaving him to face the larger man in grey, who bore no arms; his shield was as grey as his armour, and his greatsword gave him impressive reach. Their fight was brutal, both being incredibly powerful warriors, but the grey knight fought with a savagery that the blue one lacked, in a way that reminded her almost of Sandor Clegane. _The difference between a tourney knight and a warrior_, Ross noted, seeing the blue knight forced back.

Not that the smaller man was making it easy. Ross was far from an expert on swordsmanship, but she knew a little from watching Ren and practicing with Jaime, and could tell that both were extremely good, and the fact that the blue knight was holding his own testified to his skill.

The man in grey won in the end, however, to loud, enthusiastic cheers. He was clearly very popular, and received even more applause when he gallantly helped the blue knight to his feet, leading them both to kneel before Renly. Ross heard the heckles being called out towards the loser, and frowned.

"Why don't they like that one?" She asked Ser Colen, nodding at the man. He might have lost, but had put up a hell of a fight; it was no easy feat to win against Loras Tyrell.

"Because he is no man, my lady," The knight frowned, clearly disapproving. "That's Brienne of Tarth, daughter to Lord Selwyn the Evenstar,"

"Daughter?" Ross raised an eyebrow back at Dacey. "Imagine that, my lady. A woman fighting with a sword," Lady Mormont laughed. She was currently dressed in a simple green gown - they had all agreed to play along as much as possible for now - though her sword was strapped to her saddle, and she wore breeches underneath. Ross herself had her dagger hidden but within easy reach.

"You wouldn't catch me entering a tourney, that's for sure," Her companion said, grinning.

"Brienne the Beauty, they name her," Ser Colen said, oblivious to the fact that neither shared his disapproval at a woman fighting, but rather at southron knights in general. "Though not to her face, lest they be called upon to defend those words with their bodies,"

Ross was barely paying attention to him, as she heard Renly declare Ser Loreon Storm the victor of the melee, last mounted of one hundred sixteen knights. Her eyes snapped to the big grey knight, not sure how she hadn't recognised him, as he pulled off his helm. _Of course he's here, Stannis sent him to the Stormlands, and here are all its lords_. She wondered if the young man had told his uncle that particular piece of information yet. _Or has he turned his cloak? _She smiled at that; black and gold to gold and black, perhaps.

"As champion, you may ask of me any boon that you desire," Renly was saying, grinning down at his nephew and friend. "If it lies in my power, it is yours," She saw Loreon grin.

"I'll have Storm's End," He replied. A shocked silence fell abruptly over the stands, and Ross saw Renly's smile falter slightly, but then the knight laughed. "A jest, uncle, I promise. No, I ask nothing for myself save a casket of your best wine, but Lady Brienne fought valiantly in the melee. Why, she beat our dear Ser Loras after all. Had I not been here, she certainly would have triumphed. Let her have a reward as well, it's only fair,"

Perhaps it was out of relief that his initial request hadn't been serious that Renly agreed to the second quickly.

"Of course," His wide smile was back, as he turned to the woman knelt before him. "Lady Brienne? Anything you desire?"

"Your Grace," Brienne answered. "I ask the honor of a place among your Rainbow Guard. I would be one of your seven, and pledge my life to yours, to go where you go, ride at your side, and keep you safe from all hurt and harm,"

"Done," Renly said. "Rise, and remove your helm," She did, and Ross suddenly understood Ser Colen's words. Brienne the Beauty was a mocking title. The girl's face was undeniably ugly, with straw-like hair cut short to her chin, crooked teeth and broad, coarse features. But her eyes were those of a young girl, large and very blue, trusting and guileless, despite the fact she fought like a demon out of the seven hells.

"My life for yours, Your Grace. From this day on, I am your shield, I swear it by the old gods and the new," The way she looked at Renly after the man fastened a rainbow cloak around her shoulders, the way her face lit up, made her feelings towards him very plain.

"Gods, she's besotted," Dacey muttered to Ross, sympathetic rather than cruel. Ross was about to reply, but Ser Colen was approaching the gallery.

"Your Grace! I beg your leave," He went to one knee. "I have the honor to bring you the Lady Rosennis Bolton, sent as envoy by her nephew Robb, Lord of Winterfell," Ross dismounted and moved to the knight's side, Dacey several steps behind her. Renly looked surprised to see her.

"Lady Rosennis? We are most pleased," He turned to his young bride. "Margaery my sweet, this is the Lady Rosennis Bolton, Eddard Stark's sister,"

"You are most welcome here, Lady Bolton," The girl said politely, with a soft smile. "I am sorry for your loss," Ross stared at her for a moment, and to her credit, Margaery did not look away. _Genuine, or a good actor?_

"Thank you," She said eventually, shortly.

"My lady, I swear to you, I will see that the Lannisters answer for your husband's murder," Renly declared. "When I take King's Landing, I'll send you Cersei's head,"

"I'd rather you sent her alive, my lord," Ross smiled her brother Brandon's wolfish smile - on him it had been charming, whilst on her it was more unnerving - and his eyes widened slightly at that, but her attention was soon taken elsewhere.

"Your Grace," Brienne of Tarth corrected sharply. "And you should kneel when you approach the king,"

Ross arched an eyebrow, fixing the girl with a cold stare.

"_My lady_," She corrected her. "And you should not tell me off like I am a troublesome child. It's irritating and rude," The girl flushed but held her stare. After a few moments, Ross turned to Renly. "My lord, we have pressing matters to discuss,"

Some of Renly's lords bristled at the fact she hadn't changed her address to him, but the self-proclaimed king only laughed.

"Of course, my lady. Tell me, when does your son mean to march against Harrenhal?"

"I have been riding for over two weeks. I could not say, my lord," The man was not their ally yet, she was hardly going to give him their battle plans.

"So long as he leaves a few Lannisters for me, I'll not complain. What has he done with the Kingslayer?"

"Jaime Lannister is held prisoner at Riverrun,"

"Still alive?" Lord Rowan seemed dismayed.

"It would seem the direwolf is gentler than the lion," Renly just seemed bemused.

"Gentler than the Lannisters," Lady Oakheart murmured with a bitter smile. "Is drier than the sea,"

"I call it weak," Lord Tarly said bluntly. "No disrespect to you, Lady Bolton, but it would have been more seemly had Lord Robb come to pay homage to the king himself, rather than hiding behind a woman's skirts,"

"My nephew is more concerned with leading an army against Tywin Lannister, than riding here to play at war with you, my lord," Ross shot him a sharp look.

"Go softly, Lord Randyll, I fear you're overmatched," Renly grinned, summoning a steward. "Find a place for the lady's men, and see that they have every comfort. Lady Rosennis and her companion shall have my own pavilion. Since Lord Caswell has been so kind as to give me use of his castle, I have no need of it. My ladies, when you are rested, I would be honored if you would share our meat and mead at the feast Lord Caswell is giving us tonight. A farewell feast. I fear his lordship is eager to see the heels of my hungry horde,"

As Caswell made his protests to that, the steward led Ross and Dacey away to Renly's pavilion, a vast monstrosity of green silk filled with every luxury imaginable, and then some.

"Gods, no wonder they're moving at a snail's pace," Dacey said once the steward left, looking around critically. "This tent is finer than anything on Bear Island,"

"They can afford to be slow," Ross idly walked around, peering at various items. _I can understand the armoury, but the high harp..?_ "Renly's sat blocking any food shipments from reaching King's Landing. The smallfolk might open the gates themselves by the time he makes it to the city, and present him with Joffrey's head,"

She had brought one fine gown with her to Bitterbridge - the rest consisted of rather plain and practical riding habits - largely made of black velvet slashed with white, with accents in silver. Ross changed into it before going up to the castle, along with her highborn companions of Dacey, Wendel Manderly, Lucas Blackwood, Perwyn Frey and Robin Flint.

The hall was small, and packed almost full, but room was found for her companions to sit with Renly's knights on the benches, whilst Ross herself was given a place at the high table on the dais, between red-faced Lord Rowan and the amiable Ser Jon Fossoway.

Brienne of Tarth had been seated at the far end of the high table. She wore clothes more suited to a knight than a lady, along with her new rainbow cloak. Out of armour, she was even plainer than before. She had even less chest to speak of than Ross did herself, her body was ungainly, round-shouldered and heavy, and it was clear from her every action that Brienne knew it. She spoke only when spoken to, and rarely looked up from her food, all the grace and power she had showed whilst fighting having turned into a deep-set awkwardness and unease.

From the amount of food present, it was clear that the war had not touched the fertile lands of the Reach. Ross had little appetite at the best of times, and recently found herself eating even less. Tonight was no different, and she spent more time watching the man who would see himself king.

Renly sat with his wife on his left and her brother on his right. Ser Loras wore his own rainbow cloak, and received far more attention from his king than his sister did; Renly was rather too careful to pay her some mind. The man did not seem to have as large an appetite for food, drink and women as Robert had done. He laughed often, was ever-gracious and spoke amiably to highborn lords and lowly serving wenches alike. But Ross found herself glancing down at Loreon Storm with increasing frequency, where he sat down with the other knights.

Robert's bastard might not have had a place at the high table, but every nearby ear was directed at him, congratulating him for his tourney win, eager to make conversation, and Storm responded with geniality and good humour to each one. Either he was following Renly's example, or Renly was following his, for both of them worked the room like they had been born to it, rather than a bastard and a third son.

Ross had meant to speak to her son's friend during the evening, but could not face getting up and squeezing her way towards him through the rowdy guests, who drunk too much, boasted too loudly and groped at any serving girl in sight. One fancied himself a singer and unfortunately felt the need to serenade them all, whilst Lord Varner man blatantly had a hand up the serving girl on his lap as he slobbered all over her neck. Another loud-mouthed fool swore to slay the Hound in single combat, his foot in the gravy boat as he did so. _I do hope you try_.

She sat through it all without complaint though, and with some effort even made light enough conversation with the men either side of her. Ross could not keep her eyes from narrowing, however, when a fat fool came capering out in gold-painted tin with a cloth lion's head, and chased a dwarf around the tables, whacking him over the head with a bladder. Finally Renly demanded to know why he was beating his brother.

"Why, your Grace, I'm the Kinslayer," The fool said. _Oh for gods sake_.

"It's Kingslayer, fool of a fool," Renly said, and the hall rang with laughter. _You're all the biggest fools of them all_. Ross knew that Jaime would only have laughed at the idiotic display, right up until he saw the dwarf prancing around in motley. A glance down at Loreon saw that though he was outwardly laughing, the look in his eye was somewhat weary.

"They are all so young," Lord Rowan did not join the laughter, not drunk but not completely sober either. He was right, either way; few of these men had been older than babes during Robert's Rebellion, boys during the war with the Greyjoys. They were the sons of lords and knights in a peaceful summertime. They did not know war, or loss, or hardship.

"It's just a game to them," Ross agreed. "They'll soon learn,"

"Learn what?" Rowan snorted. "How to be old, tired and miserable like us?" She had to smile. _At least he's honest_. "Look at them. They're young and strong, full of life and laughter. And lust, aye, more lust than they know what to do with. There will be many a bastard bred this night, I promise you,"

"They're summer children," She said. "Age has little to do with it. I was near as jaded when I was Margaery Tyrell's age as I am now. It's simply innocence versus experience. All of this," She waved a hand at the hall. "Won't last. I might have married a Bolton, but I still remember my house words,"

"Lady Rosennis, you are wrong," Brienne said, blue eyes wide. "Winter will never come for the likes of us. Should we die in battle, they will surely sing of us, and it's always summer in the songs. In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining,"

_How can you, of all people, think in such a way?_ It was one thing hearing such nonsense from her sheltered little niece Sansa, but quite another from a grown woman of eighteen, clearly a trained warrior. _How can a woman with a face like yours be so naive to cruelty and suffering? _Ross was not ugly, but had never been a beauty either, and even that had earned her her fair share of snide remarks, judgements and snickering. She could only imagine how much worse it had been for Brienne. _Perhaps some people truly are just more innocent_.

"I knew a young knight who liked to think a little like that, once,"

"And what became of him?" Brienne asked. Ross smiled sharply.

"I believe that fat fool just showed us," Though Jaime, even when she first met him, had known that things were not as idyllic as that, simply wished they were.

"Lady Rosennis," Renly called down the table, saving an open-mouthed Brienne from having to answer that. "I feel the need of some air. Will you walk with me?"

"Of course, my lord," She stood, and so did Brienne.

"Your Grace, give me but a moment to don my mail. You should not be without protection,"

"If I am not safe in the heart of Lord Caswell's castle, with my own host around me, one sword will make no matter," Renly smiled. "Not even your sword, Brienne. Sit and eat. If I have need of you, I'll send for you,"

"As you will, Your Grace." Brienne sat, eyes downcast, far too hurt for what was said._ Gods, I hope I never looked that much like a kicked puppy_. Though Jaime surely would have laughed at her if she had.

"This way, my lady," Renly took Ross' arm and led her from the hall, taking her up a staircase in a tower. "Perchance, is Ser Barristan Selmy with your son at Riverrun?"

"No," She frowned. "Why isn't he with Joffrey?"

"The Lannisters told him he was too old and gave his cloak to the Hound," Renly shook his head. "I'm told he left King's Landing vowing to take up service with the true king. That cloak Brienne claimed today was the one I was keeping for Selmy, in hopes that he might offer me his sword. When he did not turn up at Highgarden, I thought perhaps he had gone to Riverrun instead,"

"He has not. I doubt he will," _He's a Targaryen loyalist at heart... and wouldn't come anywhere near me looking for sanctuary_. On her visits to King's Landing, Ross had made sure he knew exactly how deep her grudge for the majority of Aerys' Kingsguard went.

"He was old, yes, but a good man still," Renly misunderstood, and Ross didn't bother to correct him. "I hope he has not come to harm. The Lannisters are great fools," He hesitated. "On the night of Robert's death, I offered your brother a hundred swords and urged him to take Joffrey into his power. Had he listened, he would be regent today, and there would have been no need for me to claim the throne,"

"Is that right,"

"He had sworn to protect Robert's children," Renly continued, missing the edge to her tone. "I lacked the strength to act alone, so when Lord Eddard turned me away, I had no choice but to flee. Had I stayed, I knew the queen would see to it that I did not long outlive my brother,"

_Or you could have waited a couple of hours and joined your strength to his when it all went to shit_.

"I liked your brother well enough, my lady. He was a loyal friend to Robert, I know... but he would not listen and he would not bend. Here, I wish to show you something," Renly pushed open a wooden door at the top of the stairs, and they stepped outside. The surrounding land was flat, and even from the roof of this small keep, she could see leagues in all directions. Fires covered the ground, stretching impossibly, scarily far.

"Count them if you like, my lady," Renly said quietly. "You will still be counting when dawn breaks in the east. How many fires burn around Riverrun tonight, I wonder? I'm told your son crossed the Neck with twenty thousand swords at his back," Renly went on. "Now that the lords of the Trident are with him, perhaps he commands forty thousand," _Not near so many_. "I have twice that number here. And this is only part of my strength. Mace Tyrell remains at Highgarden with another ten thousand, I have a strong garrison holding Storm's End, and soon enough the Dornishmen will join me with all their power. And never forget my brother Stannis, who holds Dragonstone and commands the lords of the narrow sea,"

"Stannis," Ross said sharply. "Do you truly think that Stannis would bend the knee to you as king? The man lives by his duty, and even if he did not want a crown, he is your elder brother, and would take the throne for that reason alone,"

"Let us be blunt, my lady," Renly laughed. "Stannis would make an appalling king. Nor is he like to become one. Men respect Stannis, even fear him, but precious few have ever loved him," That was true, but that didn't necessarily make him a bad king.

"Robb Stark is his father's son," She said carefully. "No decision has been reached as yet on this matter, but I know where my nephew's opinions lie. In his mind, Stannis has the right, so must have the throne. Likely the only reason he didn't argue it more strongly is that Stannis is as yet uncrowned," Renly shrugged.

"Tell me, what right did my brother Robert ever have to the Iron Throne? Oh, there was talk of the blood ties between Baratheon and Targaryen, of weddings a hundred years past. No one but the maesters care about any of it. Robert won the throne with his warhammer." He swept a hand across the campfires that burned from horizon to horizon. "Well, there is my claim, as good as Robert's ever was. If your nephew supports me as his father supported Robert, I will gladly confirm him in all his lands, titles, and honours. He can rule in Winterfell as he pleases, so long as he bends the knee,"

"Let me be blunt with you, my lord," Ross said after a moment. "My nephew hopes to support Stannis, but I care very little who sits the Iron Throne far in the south. All I want is to take the crown from the cruel child who took my brother's head. Most of the Northern lords feel the same," There was a silence. Renly was about to speak, but was cut off as down in the yard below, the portcullis rose.

"Summon the king!" A rider urged his exhausted horse through the gates. Renly vaulted up into a crenel.

"I'm here, ser,"

"Your Grace," The man rode closer. "I came swift as I could. From Storm's End. We are besieged, Your Grace, Ser Cortnay defies them, but..."

"But... that's not possible," Renly faltered, looking truly shocked. "I would have been told if Lord Tywin left Harrenhal,"

"These are no Lannisters, my liege. It's Lord Stannis at your gates. King Stannis, he calls himself now,"

Renly turned around to look at her.

"Like I said," Ross smiled tightly. "I care not who sits the throne, only who is most likely to take it from Joffrey and return my daughter and nieces to me. Remember that, my lord, and one day I might call you king," Without another word, she turned and swept back down the stairs.

* * *

_Once again, there is some text here from A Clash of Kings, credits to George RR Martin. I try and minimise how much I copy, but some dialogue needs to be there for the conversation to make sense. _

_I hope you enjoyed the chapter, apologies for the longish wait. There were some big decisions to make about the direction this story is going, which I needed to sort out before continuing. Right now it may seem rather similar to canon, I know, but I hope you can appreciate the subtle changes I've been working in, leading up to bigger things._

_As usual, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, so please feel free to review, it really inspires me to keep writing. Thanks to all my readers, especially those who have reviewed already._


	27. Vows To A Dead Man

"They're fools," Loreon Storm was stood in her tent, and clearly would have been pacing, had there been the room for it. "Complete and utter fools, stubborn and too proud for their own good, the both of them," As it was, his presence filled the small space, blue eyes dark and angry as he loomed over her.

In what had been nearly six weeks since Ross had arrived at Renly's camp in Bitterbridge, Loreon had been playing the game constantly, and so well that it wasn't obvious he was even doing it at all. There was always an assured, warm smile on his face, and he treated all men with friendliness and respect regardless of whether they were a common soldier or a lord, playing the charming but humble everyman, never acting above his station or scorning those below it. This strategy had won the friendship of what seemed like most everyone in the camp, of importance or otherwise.

Loreon also had their respect as a truly formidable fighter - demonstrated not only when he won the tourney, but also whenever he sparred with other knights to train, which he did regularly - and had proved his insight and intelligence in the war councils, without presuming to challenge any of the lords directly. In all the time she had been in the camp, Ross had not found anyone who did not praise the young knight for being brave, honest and unambitious. _Perhaps one of those is true_.

It wasn't even so much an act, though, more like he was only displaying one side of himself, which could be why it worked so well. Loreon had displayed another side of himself entirely on the occasions he had spoken to Ross alone, letting himself slip into a sharper, clearly ambitious and surprisingly pragmatic persona. Whether this was a conscious decision or not, she didn't know, but in the same way that his joviality and apparent humbleness endeared him to most of the knights and lords, this side of him made her regard for him grow. If this _was_ a conscious effort to earn her respect, it had worked well. The young man was certainly one to watch.

Ross herself had set aside the thin smiles and half-answers she gave to humour Renly, unwilling at this point to commit Robb's allegiances one way or another, and spoke plainly to the so-called king's bastard nephew. She knew already that Loreon's loyalties lay with Stannis - in truth, she was somewhat surprised he hadn't defected to Renly entirely by now, given that ambition of his - but she previously suspected he had still been holding onto the naive hope that he might somehow be able to make the Baratheon brothers allies again. He _was_ young, after all.

Now, it was clear that he was under no such delusions. Now, Ross was seeing Loreon Storm live up to his Baratheon temper for the first time. _Ours is the fury indeed_.

She didn't blame him. The parlay that day had been a resounding failure. Renly and Stannis seemed to prefer the idea of war with each other than war with the Lannisters, no matter the best efforts of people around them. Ross had been present herself, and along with Loreon, had tried to make the brothers see that by fighting together they had a chance, whilst even the winner of a fight between them both would be weakened and likely suffer defeat overall. Their efforts had been in vain; Stannis knew all this already, but was too stubborn and proud to bow to his younger brother, whilst Renly seemed to think he could win against Stannis and the Lannisters both with ease and still be hailed a hero.

Loreon was still ranting.

"And the red woman, Melisandre, she's likely been filling his head with all kinds of horseshit, prophecies and magic. We're likely lucky she hasn't managed to get him to replace the stags on his banners with her god's fiery heart! Her influence was growing when I left, but it was always Selyse who listened to her, not Stannis. That's clearly changed - maybe he fucked her, gods only know - and now he's even harder to reach than before. Would it been any different had I been a trueborn son and you a lord rather than a lady? Would they have listened to us then?" He finished, breathing heavily.

"I doubt it," Ross said darkly. "Though if you were Robert's eldest trueborn son, we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. And if I was a high lord - " She broke off, for the consequences of that were unimaginable. _What would I have done, in Brandon's place?_ She liked to think she wouldn't have marched straight into Aerys' court and demanded his son to come out and die, but she really couldn't know._ Perhaps slapped some sense into Catelyn_. "There's been no battle yet. Why aren't you saying all this to Renly, instead of me?"

"You heard him today," Loreon said scornfully. "There's no chance of him giving up his crown. Stannis even offered him Storm's End, and he refused. I've been working on Renly for _months_, and for what? Fucking nothing,"

"I wouldn't say nothing," Ross raised an eyebrow. "The Stormlords love you near as much as their beloved king, and the Reachmen like and respect you. You've spent months befriending everyone important, and even more who aren't," The knight opened his mouth, but she continued. "Our best hope for tomorrow is that someone kills one of your uncles quickly, so few men are lost. If it's Stannis who dies, the Narrow Sea lords are unlikely to join Renly over the Lannisters, but what's it matter, they're no big loss, there's still a large enough force to threaten King's Landing. And if it's Renly..." She trailed off, looking at him pointedly.

"If Renly dies, then I rally the Stormlands and Reach to Stannis," Loreon finished for her without missing a beat. His anger was slowly leaving him, replaced with the fierce determination she had come to know well in the past weeks.

"You mentioned trying to prove yourself invaluable to the man," Ross said. "I imagine that bringing him as many as a hundred thousand men might do just that. You'd have more respect there than you'd ever have with Renly alive,"

"I'm not certain I could turn the whole host to him," He admitted. "And that's only if Stannis wins, which is unlikely. Renly's still got more vastly men,"

"Either way, the matter is settled one way or another," She shrugged. "Yes, your uncles are both fools. Yes, they'll waste men and resources fighting each other. But likely by this time next week, one of them will be dead, and you'll be in favour with the victor," _And Robb's choice will be that much easier_.

"That's true," Loreon said, then chuckled humourlessly. "I don't particularly want either of them to die. I suppose that's the problem,"

"That's war," Ross said flatly. "That's life. You did what you could, and it didn't work. They didn't listen, and now we all deal with the consequences," He stared at her for a moment, then his lips twitched in a way that reminded her of Jaime. The Lannister in him wasn't ever particularly visible - from the honest, brave, everyman knight he played, to his clearly Baratheon features - but small things did get through.

"I can see where your son gets his charming personality, my lady," She gave a sharp laugh at that.

"You don't know the half of it," She said. "I'm not sure where you get yours, in truth. You got Robert's face, and skill at making friends, and Giana's warmth - sometimes, at least - but looks aside, I don't see much of either of your parents in you,"

"You say that like it's a good thing," He didn't look too offended.

"With the way things are headed, it might well be," She gave him a shrewd look. "Now, the battle's meant to start at dawn. Only a matter of hours away. Will you be getting a good night's sleep, Ser Loreon?" He grinned, catching her meaning.

"If only," He said. "It's a night of politics for me. Or rather, drinking with the knights and soldiers, smarmying up to the lords, winning a few fights and showing no hints of fear or doubt whatsoever,"

"With an attitude like that," Ross smiled tightly. "You might just make it through this alive,"

* * *

Loreon Storm was not the only one to stay awake that night. Few of Ross' companions and guards slept well, and she herself spent the night staring into the fire, listening to Wendel Manderly's snoring. As the grey dawn rose, soldiers and knights starting to stir, she could sit there no longer.

"I'm going to see Renly again," She announced to anyone who was awake. "He won't listen, but I won't have it said that I didn't try. Anyone who wants to see me tear my hair out in sheer frustration is welcome to join,"

In the end, Dacey joined her, as did Ser Perwyn - who was surprisingly bearable, for a Frey - and one of the Winterfell guards, Derrick. They approached Renly's tent, still lit with candles in the relative darkness, to find it guarded by two of his rainbow guard - Ross had scoffed the first time she heard that name, at both the imagery and the pandering to the Faith - the purple one and the yellow. _At least I don't have to bother learning their names with those daft cloaks_.

She entered the tent to find Renly wasn't alone. Brienne of Tarth was armouring him, whilst he finished speaking to two of his lords. _Rowan and Tarly_.

"No men were hurled from the walls," Mathis Rowan was saying. "I would surely remember that,"

"Did I come at a bad time?" Ross spoke, raising an eyebrow. Renly laughed.

"Lady Rosennis, I was just telling the lords why Stannis will never yield," He said. "Our master-at-arms tried to sneak out and surrender with three others during the siege of Storm's End in the rebellion. Stannis caught them and strapped him to a catapult," He turned to Rowan. "He would've flung him too, had Maester Cressen not told him that we might be forced to eat our dead, and there was no gain in flinging away good meat," Renly pushed back his hair, and Brienne bound it with a velvet tie. "Thanks to the Onion Knight we were never reduced to dining on corpses, but it was a close thing. Too close for Ser Gawen, who died in his cell," _And why should I care? _ She hadn't come to make smalltalk or share old war stories.

"Your Grace," Ross ground out through gritted teeth, earning herself several surprised looks, but she had decided her pride was worth less than this. _Anything to make you listen, even a stolen title_. "I need a word," Renly smiled, and nodded.

"See to your battles, my lords,"

"Your Grace," The lords bowed deeply and departed.

"Say your say, Lady Bolton," Renly said, as Brienne swept his cloak over his broad shoulders.

"Joffrey killed my brother," She said. "Like I've said before, the North does not care who sits that ugly iron chair so long as it is not him. If you're an intelligent man, you would join your forces to your brother's and help him defeat the Lannisters before fighting him. Bow at his feet, call him Your Grace and care not for your own pride or impatience. War is a dangerous game, and men die easily, even kings. If Stannis was to fall in battle, who would be his natural successor? A meek girl of ten, or his grown, charismatic brother? Who would have the support of not only the Reach and Stormlands, but the North and Riverlands too," Renly stared at her for a moment, rather shocked at the explicit offer of a possible alliance, but then gave an incredulous laugh.

"Are you sure you're a Stark, my lady?" He sounded impressed, but not in a way that was of any use to her. "And there was me thinking you were just like dear old Ned. You're suggesting I arrange the death of my own brother in battle?"

"How is that _any_ different to what you are planning on doing today?" Ross asked sharply. "The only difference is, in the chaos of battle against the Lannisters, no one will know he died by your order. There would be no stain of kinslaying, no mutters of usurper, like there will if you kill him fighting in the field. And if you win that battle, you will have won the throne. What do you win today, my lord, aside from Stannis' corpse?"

"My lords would not agree with that plan," Renly shook his head, still seeming amused, which irritated her beyond belief. "Whether I told them the truth of the intended kinslaying, or lied and said that I was giving up my crown,"

"You are the king," Ross said mockingly. "Make them agree with it," She had been polite up to this point, had humoured him long enough.

"Perhaps if that had been my plan from the start, I would consider it," He shrugged. "But it's too late for that now," _How can you be so careless? This is war._

"It's not too late until you deplete your men and resources fighting a foe you _don't have to fight_. Is a pissing contest between two brothers worth you losing the throne in the long run? Set down your crown now, and do as I say, and you will be sat on the Iron Throne before the year's end," Renly just laughed.

"Tell me, my lady, do direwolves bite their pack in the back when they expect it least?" Brienne brought the king's gauntlets and helm, crowned with ridiculously large golden antlers, and Ross met her blue eyes briefly, seeing judging disapproval in the girl's stare, no doubt for her suggested plan. "The time for talk and plotting is done. Now we see who is stronger," Renly pulled a gauntlet over his left hand, while Brienne knelt to buckle on his belt, heavy with the weight of longsword and dagger. _Honour. After all this, you lecture me on honour? _Ross's eyes narrowed and she stepped forward, fists clenched.

"You foolish, stubborn boy - " She began viciously, but broke off abruptly as a sudden gust of wind flung open the door of the tent. Ross thought she glimpsed movement, but when she turned her head, it was only Renly's shadow shifting against the silken walls. She heard the man begin a jest, but she couldn't take her eyes off his shadow.

The candles guttered, shivered, and a sense of extreme wrongness overcame her. Ross turned sharply to look at Renly. His sword was still in its scabbard, but the shadow on the wall -

"Cold," Renly said in a small puzzled voice, a heartbeat before the steel of his gorget parted like cheesecloth beneath the shadow of a blade that was not there. He had time to gasp, and Ross stepped back swiftly, horrified. Then the blood came gushing out of his throat, splashing her face and dark blue dress despite the distance she had tried to put between them.

"Your Gr—no!" Brienne cried when she saw, sounding as scared as any little girl. Dacey and Derrick, so silent until this point that Ross had forgotten they were there, cursed loudly and Perwyn Frey gave an alarmed exclamation, all three drawing their swords.

The king stumbled into Brienne's arms, blood pouring down his armour. More candles guttered out. Renly tried to speak, but he was choking. His legs collapsed, and only Brienne's strength held him up, even as the girl screamed in anguish, but Ross' eyes were on the shadow Renly never cast. It was a malevolent presence, something dark and evil, something that she didn't understand, and that terrified her. She felt blood run down her face, down her neck, still hot, and furiously wiped at it with her sleeve.

Only a few seconds passed before Robar Royce and Emmon Cuy came bursting in, though it felt like half the night. When they saw Renly in Brienne's arms, and her drenched with the king's blood, Ser Robar gave a cry of horror.

"Wicked woman!" Ser Emmon screamed. "Away from him, you vile creature!"

"Gods be good, Brienne, why?" Ser Robar asked. Brienne looked up from her king's body, her blue cloak soaked in his blood.

"I... I..."

"It wasn't her," Ross stepped forward sharply, ignoring her shaking hands as her voice - to her relief as strong as it ever was - cut through the tent, through the rising blood madness. She hesitated for a split second, fear and panic rising up inside her; what on earth could she even say? _A shadow killed him, yes, they'll believe that for sure_. Even if they did, they'd likely go and proclaim her as the witch who did the murder. "An assassin, sers, he came under the tent from outside," It was easier to pretend that was the actual truth. She waved a hand at the silk walls. "You're the king's _guards_. For gods sakes catch the man, before he runs off back to whoever sent him," _Stannis_. She didn't say the name on her lips as a lie, but Ross realised, somehow, that it was true.

Ser Emmon looked half-blind in fury and grief - almost as ready to run her through as he was Brienne, spattered with Renly's blood as she was - but Ser Robar hesitated to listen to her, glancing at her companions for confirmation.

"The man was... was like a shadow, we barely saw him ourselves," Perwyn Frey agreed, and Ross was very grateful he caught on so fast. Her mind was struggling to accept what she had seen, and her body was catching up, she couldn't have sustained the lie alone for much longer.

"Lady Brienne tried to stop him, but he was too quick," Dacey hastily added, the genuine shock and shakiness in her voice making it sound very real indeed. "Look at her, she clearly grieves for Lord Renly as much as you do," _More so, most likely, the girl loved him_.

"On my honour as a Stark, on my father's grave, she did not do it. Nor did any of us," Ross added with a pointed look at Ser Emmon, who had started to turn his furious gaze to the Stark representatives. To her silent relief, however, Ser Robar nodded grimly, hollering over his shoulder at the men-at-arms who had entered to find a fleeing man covered in blood. Ser Emmon was still breathing heavily, and Robar clapped an arm around his shoulder, leading him away.

"We must help them, brother," He said. Emmon nodded shakily. "Brienne, guard the - guard the king," _Guard the corpse_. The two men left. Ross heard the shouts picking up outside the tent, the sounds of unfolding chaos, but she ignored them, for now. Her hands were still shaking, her face must be as ashy pale as everyone else's was, and she wanted nothing more than to run from the scene of this vile murder, but running would make them look guilty. And all of the others were looking to her now.

"There was no shadow," Ross looked at each of them in turn, knowing her stare wasn't as stony and her tone not as unrelenting as usual. "It was a man that killed Renly, a strong but quick man, dark haired and fair skinned, but we didn't get a good look at him. Any mention of a shadow - of - of sorcery, or witchcraft, or magic, and I will personally strangle the person that said it. Understood?" The blood smeared on her face, staining her dress, may have helped emphasise her threat. Her three nodded, but Ross looked down at Brienne, who was still cradling Renly's body. "You too, my lady," Brienne barely glanced up at her.

"Come on, set him down," Dacey moved to the girl's side with a warm, sympathetic expression before Ross could say anything too sharp.

"I never held him but as he died," Brienne said quietly. Her voice sounded as if she might break at any moment. "He was laughing one moment, and suddenly the blood was everywhere..." She looked up at Ross. "My lady, I do not understand. Did you not see, did you..?"

"Of course I saw," Ross said coldly. "I saw what we all did. The shadow of Stannis killed Renly with a sword that wasn't there. It makes no sense, not to me, not to you, and most importantly, not to anyone else. If we start spilling tales of dark magic, we will either look impossibly guilty, or be locked up for madness,"

"I will kill him," Brienne declared. "With my lord's own sword, I will kill him," She set the body down on the ground, getting to her feet. Renly's head rolled sickeningly to one side, blood still slowly pulsing from his open throat.

"No you won't," Ross said shortly, not in the mood for fits of knightly valour. "If Stannis dies, who will claim his throne? Killing him will simply prolong the fighting," Brienne's jaw clenched at that.

"I swore to protect Renly. I must avenge his death with the head of his murderer. Honour only dictates - "

_"Honour?"_ Ross scornfully cut her off. "Try telling yourself that Stannis' death is honourable when it plunges the realm into a longer, more bloody war. Try telling the widows and orphans of the men that die fighting in it, the children starving in winter, because war ruined their harvest and soldiers plundered their stores. All for one selfish woman's vows to a dead man. How is any of that honourable?" She was being cruel, Ross thought, as Brienne's face crumpled, but didn't take any of it back. _Time to grow up, girl_.

There was a heavy silence.

"Forgive me, my lady," Perwyn said. "But we don't know it was Stannis. It was a _shadow_,"

"Stannis' shadow," Both Brienne and Ross insisted. She turned to look at the girl, relenting slightly.

"Most of this camp will go over to Stannis now," She said, anticipating Brienne's protest and holding up a hand. "Frey is right. None of these lords can prove Stannis sent an assassin - easier to blame the Lannisters - and for most here, he's a better choice than turning to the boy king. My point is, if you don't wish to serve Renly's killer, you could serve with us instead," _I care not what you do, so long as you don't go tearing off to murder the best chance at a king we've got_.

"You'd likely fit in better with the Northern troops than with this lot, besides," Dacey said with a smile. "My mother taught me and all my sisters to fight. She leads her troops into battle, and I was part of Lord Robb's battle guard,"

"You're forgetting Lady Rosennis," Perwyn Frey shot a weakly amused smile Ross' way. "You're rather handy with a blade yourself, my lady," She had spent many of the evenings on the journey south sparring with Dacey; the woman had finally convinced Ross, where Jaime had never been able to, to pick up a sword and learn to use it, rather than simply fight with her long dagger. She was no great swordsman, but it was better than nothing, she supposed.

"Only with the element of surprise," She muttered, turning back to Brienne. "What do you say, then? Where else are you going to go, crawl back home to Tarth?" The girl was a formidable fighter it was true, and very loyal, but the biggest reason Ross wanted her was so she could keep a watchful eye on her.

"I - " Brienne blinked, seeming taken aback by the sudden near-kindness, after the previous sharp telling off. Then she seemed to deflate. "I - yes, my lady. I'll join you. Thank you," The thanks was hollow. She clearly disliked having no option but to join the woman who had tried to turn Renly to such a dishonourable path as killing his own brother as they fought on the same side. Never mind that he was trying to achieve the same goal in battle.

"Lady Stark? They said you were here," The door to the tent was pushed open, revealing Loreon Storm. His grim faced turned even grimmer when he saw the bloody body of his uncle on the ground, and he stopped dead. "Gods," He paused for a moment, grief flashing across his expression for a moment, before turning back to her. "Ser Robar said it was an assassin that did it, my lady," He gave her a hard look.

"He said it right," Ross said, taking the waterskin that Dacey wordlessly passed her at his entrance and using it to scrub the blood off her face. "I can't say who sent the man, though. He wore no sigil," Loreon was still looking at her like she'd done the deed herself - she didn't blame him after some of their previous conversations - and she gritted her teeth, addressing her companions. "You four, stay here. Storm, walk with me," _Best get this sorted now_. A moment's silence, then he nodded shortly.

They left the tent, walking swiftly side by side into the chill of dawn, into the chaos gradually unfolding in the morning gloom. Ser Emmon and Ser Robar had clearly not kept the news of Renly's assassination quiet. Men were rushing past them, shouting, others were muttering in small groups and a few were praying. Despite Loreon's size clearing them a decent path, Ross was almost swept by in the tide of moving people.

"My lady - " Loreon began, but she spoke over him, long fingers gripping his offered arm in a vice grip so they weren't separated, ignoring the stains her bloody sleeve left on his shirt.

"Before you ask anything of me," She said in a low voice. "All _this_," She waved a hand at their surroundings. "Must be dealt with, fast. You're the only one with a hope of salvaging the majority of Renly's army," Which was already coming apart as word of their king's death spread to every corner of the camp. "I swear I did not order his murder, and I'll give you more answers later, ser, but now is the time to _act_,"

There was a moment's silence, where the young man surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes, then looked back down at her. She knew what he was thinking. She knew he suspected her. But she also knew he was half a Lannister, perhaps more than half, and though he might rage at her later, he would not pass up this chance now, no matter how distasteful it might be.

"You're right," Well he listened better than both his uncles, at least. _Why couldn't Robert have just married Giana?_ "I trust you can make it back to your men?"

"Of course. I'll hope to see you later, with at least half an army at your back," His lips twitched at that, but the look in his eyes was darkly determined. Ross slipped away into the crowd, heading back towards Renly's tent, but taking more time than she could have done. She managed to find a patch of high ground, emptier than the rest, and stare east as the sun rose, the immense walls of Storm's End becoming visible in the growing light.

Wisps of pale mist raced across the field; Ross knew them as morning ghosts, from Old Nan's stories, spirits returning to their graves. Then she caught a glimpse of a shadow carrying a sword, and started backwards in fright, only to realise that it was simply a shadow of a nearby soldier. Her hands were still shaking slightly, and if she closed her eyes, she could hear her own racing heartbeat.

She had spent her childhood unbothered by the eerieness of the godswood, had played games amongst the statues of dead kings in the Winterfell crypts, had watched men be burned alive in wildfire, but the shadow Ross had seen today had truly disturbed her, and she still felt the taint of that wrongness in the air.

Trying to pull herself together, she returned to the tent. More guards had joined her three and Brienne, and were in the process of lifting the corpse onto the bed. The girl was watching with glassy eyes, but did not cry.

"Ser Loreon is attempting to restore order," Ross addressed them. "The Stormlords will likely listen to him. I'm not sure about the Reach, now their dear Margaery won't be queen. All we can do for now is stay out of the way,"

They returned to the camp the northern escort had made, Brienne wandering off to collect her own horse and armour; Dacey had gone with her, at a sharp look from Ross, not willing to risk any half-witted attempts at vengeance. Having changed into clean clothes, it didn't take long to explain to the rest of their men what had happened - the assassin version of events, not the one with the shadow (the less people knew of that, the better) - and what would happen next. There were a few grumbles about staying put and doing nothing, but for the most part the news was met with shrugs and grim faces, as the men began to discuss the events in low voices amongst themselves.

Loreon sent a messenger later in the day, inviting her to a council in Renly's former tent in an hours time. From where the Northmen were watching from their slightly raised camp, it looked like the camp had indeed calmed down, although no one could have missed the multitude of Reachmen packing up and leaving. Not one stormlord was amongst them, however, and many Reach houses were not gone yet, several prominent ones included. That was something, she told herself. Gods only knew what the council would lead to.

Having gone into her tent, just for a moment to collect herself, Ross suddenly felt very alone in this place, despite being surrounded by loyal men, and companions she trusted, even liked. She missed Ren's flat looks, Edrick's wide grins, Aileen's quiet understanding and Morganna's mischievous smirks. She missed Ned's solid presence, though he was gone forever. She wanted her family.

It didn't help knowing that Ren and Robb were at war, that Edrick and Aileen were far off in the North, that Sansa, Arya and Morganna were all prisoners in King's Landing, at the mercy of the Lannisters... Just as Jaime was at the mercy of the Starks. Images of the small tower cell, where he had held her as she cried, came to mind. Perhaps that was what she was missing. There was no one here she could be so soft in front of.

_Nothing to be done about that_. Ross gathered herself together, face sliding into her usual stony expression, and left the tent.

* * *

_A long wait for this update, I know. This part of the story is much harder to write now the plot is beginning to diverge more significantly from canon. I hope you enjoyed this chapter - as always, constructive criticism is welcome - and thanks for reading._


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